Gypsy Weddings
by Baby-Cellophane
Summary: Companion piece for "Esmerelda's Choice" and "Sins of the Father." Chronicles several different Gypsy weddings. Rated M for sex and some violence.
1. Introduction

INTRODUCTION

These were some moments that were not included in "Esmerelda's Choice" or "The Sins of the Father." I noticed that they were all wedding/courtship moments, so I decided to put them all into their own story, "Gypsy Weddings."

I've recently revamped it a little, putting all the stories in chronological order. They now include (in this order): Rosalie's backstory, Esmerelda's forced marriage to Claude Frollo, Clopin and Cassandra's courtship and wedding, Esmerelda's reunion with Phoebus and their wedding, and Marie and Dmitri's courtship and wedding.

It's not done yet, as I will be adding in Katarina and Giovanni's wedding at some point.


	2. Rosalie and Henri

**Author's Note: **I gave Rosalie a complex backstory, but it never worked its way into "Esmerelda's Choice." There's a brief mention of something she's done in Chapter 10:

_She glanced at the thick gray blanket in the bottom of the wagon. Pierre and Marie lay beneath it. She hoped that they were sleeping, and was relieved that they had not seen what she'd done. She had killed before, once long ago, and it was not a particularly pleasant experience. She was glad, though, that her children knew nothing of it._

And I thought I would use this as an opportunity to expand on it.

* * *

**Reims, 1480…**

"He's a good man, Rosalie."

She sighed. "But Mother – "

"Hand me that towel, will you?"

She took the thin white towel and handed it to her mother. "Mother, I don't love Henri. I barely know him!"

"I felt the exact same way about your father when I married him." Her mother's tone was clipped and sharp, not at all comforting. Rosalie turned back to her sewing and sighed. She'd practically memorized this particular lecture, and she tuned her mother's voice out. "But when you get married, you'll learn to love him. That's what marriage is all about, and besides, you aren't getting any younger. When I was your age I was married with two children and a third on the way…"

Rosalie sighed. Her mother was right. She was only twenty-one, but most of the other women her age were married. She'd overheard people talking about her, wondering why she still hadn't married. She heard them whisper and she hated it. She supposed that there were worse things than marrying Henri. He wasn't a bad person; perhaps a little too fond of beer, but each man had his vice. She liked him well enough. She could probably learn to love him.

"All right, Mother," she said. "When's the wedding?"

"Good girl! It's in three days."

~xXx~

"I've just seen Henri, and he looks so handsome!" Josette was standing behind her, tightening the stiff white corset. Rosalie gasped; she'd never liked corsets, and had never worn hers so tight.

"It's too tight – "

"Oh don't be silly. Look how pretty you are!"

Rosalie turned her attention to the mirror. The corset somehow made her waist look smaller and her breasts look bigger. It was nearly impossible to breathe. Josette fluttered about her like a fat little bird, adjusting the dress. Josette was expecting her second baby, though by the size of her stomach, Rosalie guessed that she would bear twins or possibly triplets. "How have you been feeling?" she asked, motioning to Josette's swollen belly.

"Oh, I'm fine," said Josette. "Of course, I'll feel much better when it's out of me. The herbs you gave me have helped with the sickness." She stood back, her hands on her hips, examining Rosalie now. "How long before you and Henri start having children?"

"Please, I have to marry him first!" Rosalie laughed, but Josette's question stung her. She wasn't sure she wanted children, at least, not now. Children were a great deal of work. They were difficult. Rosalie had helped enough women give birth to know that the whole process was long and painful. She wasn't sure she wanted that sort of pain. Children would rob her of her freedom. She would be forever lifting them and carrying them about with her, she would have no time to herself. Henri could escape it whenever he wanted to, but, as a woman, she would be stuck with it.

"Rosalie, stop dawdling, you'll be late for your own wedding." Her mother's shrill voice broke through her thoughts.

"I'm coming, Mother!"

She and Josette left the tent. She could see the altar; Henri and his father were standing on it, watching her. She approached, suddenly longing for her own father. Traditionally, he would be the one to marry her and Henri, joining their hands while they drank from the same wine glass. He had died years ago, though, and Rosalie had to force herself not to think about him. It would only make her cry, and what sort of bride cries on her wedding day?

Herni's hands were large and warm, and he smiled as he took hold of her hands. "You look beautiful," he whispered. She didn't realize that she was shaking until she felt his hands envelop hers.

"Thank you."

Henri's father cleared his throat. "Henri, do you swear to love and honor your wife, Rosalie?"

"I do."

"Rosalie, do you swear to love and honor your husband, Henri?"

"I do." Her reply felt mechanical. Henri's father handed her a glass of wine. She drank, letting the sweet liquid pour down her throat, then handed the glass to Henri. He drained it, then hurled it to the ground, letting it shatter. Rosalie stared down at the broken fragments of the glass, dimly aware of the crowd cheering. She let Henri pull her toward him and kiss her. She closed her eyes and kissed him back. They were married now. It felt so strange; it felt as though she was a completely different person.

There was music and food and dancing, and her friends flocked to her, congratulating her, but she was barely aware of it. It felt hazy and dream-like. She smiled and danced with Henri, and let him bring her back to his caravan. He smelled strongly of wine, practically reeked of it, and Rosalie suddenly wondered how much he'd consumed. She herself had had some wine, though not nearly as much as he had, of this she was certain.

He pulled at her skirt, shoving it up around her hips; she cried out in pain when he entered her for the first time. He was rough and sloppy, but it was over quickly. She lay in the dark beside him afterwards, listening to him snore and wondering if it would always be like this.

~xXx~

She tried to tell herself that she loved Henri. After all, he was her husband, and she was relatively certain that he loved her. He had never done anything to indicate otherwise; she felt guilty for not loving him. They'd been married four months now, and she would be having his baby in another five. She had to love him, she just had to…but she didn't.

Henri drank, though both Josette and her mother had assured her that all men drink. Still, it seemed as though Henri drank too much. He stumbled home drunk and penniless, pawing at her with rough hands. She felt that she made enough money to support herself, but not enough to support Henri and the baby. She'd hidden most of her money from him, and now felt ashamed of this. They had promised to share everything they owned, and she was hiding her coins beneath the mattress like a miser. It was for the baby, she told herself. Perhaps Henri would stop drinking so much after the baby was born; perhaps he wouldn't spend everything he earned in the tavern.

"My Phillipe drinks just as much as Henri does," Josette said, shifting the twins in her arms.

"But does he spend every coin he earns on drink?" Josette bit her lip and looked away. Rosalie sighed. "I have some money, but it isn't nearly enough for the baby!"

"It'll be enough," said Josette. "Babies don't need much."

Rosalie stood up and went to the bed, reaching under the mattress for the coin pouch. She pulled it out; it felt much lighter, and she tore it open frantically. It was empty. The coins she'd saved so carefully were all gone. She felt her legs tremble and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the empty coin pouch. "It's gone. It's all gone, he took it!"

"I…I really need to go," said Josette, rising quickly. "I'm sorry, Rosalie, I really am. I – I'll do anything I can to help – "

"Why would he do this?"

"I really must be going." She heard the door slam shut, and buried her face in her hands. The coins were gone. Henri had taken the money she had earned and was drinking it away. He didn't care about her or the baby. All he cared about was getting drunk. She couldn't love him, she didn't want to. It didn't matter that he was her husband; he'd just betrayed her and for what? For a few glasses of cheap wine and beer? She threw the coin pouch to the floor, tears streaming down her face.

The door swung open and she looked up, half-expecting to see Josette. Henri shut the door behind him. He wobbled towards her. "What's the matter?" he asked, his speech slightly slurred. "You all right?"

She picked up the coin pouch and approached him. "Where is it?" she demanded, "what have you done with my money?"

"Your money?"

"Yes! I earned it! It's mine!"

"This is my caravan," he said, "everything in it belongs to me, including money."

She struck him, slamming her fist into his shoulder. She wanted to scream and curse at him, but the words stuck in her throat. He moved suddenly and quickly, shoving her hard enough to knock her over. Rosalie hit the floor hard. She stared up at Henri, realizing for the first time just how tall he was. He glared down at her, then grabbed her wrist and jerked her to her feet.

"Don't you ever strike me again," he said. He was gripping her arm, digging his fingers into her.

"That was my money," she said, trying to pull away from him. "I earned it, and you drank it all away!"

"Don't you dare talk to me that way!"

"I'll talk to you any way I like – "

He slapped her hard across the face. Rosalie stumbled, and he let go of her arm. She rubbed her face, staring at him in disbelief. He had just struck her. She could taste blood, and she touched her lips. Her fingertips came away covered in blood. He had struck her and she was bleeding. "You bastard," she said, still staring at her fingers.

He hit her again, punching her in the stomach this time. Rosalie cried out, buckling from the pain, falling to her knees. He had knocked the wind out of her, and she gasped for breath, staring up at him. She moved away from him, half-crawling backwards and slowly getting to her feet. She felt nothing but hate for him; it seemed to fill her and radiate from her, and she knew that he could see it. He took the coin pouch from her.

"Everything in this caravan is mine," he said, holding it up. "If you earn any money, it is your duty to give it to me."

"Why? So you can drink it away?" she shouted. He raised his hand to strike her again. "Go ahead! Go ahead and hit me, you stupid drunk bastard! I'm not afraid of you!"

He punched her, and she felt a sharp, agonizing pain ripple through her stomach. She screamed, clutching her stomach. Something warm and wet was spilling out of her; she looked down and saw blood staining her skirt. The baby. Oh God, he had killed the baby. She reached between her legs, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood. The baby – her baby – he had just killed her baby.

"Oh God – oh God, Rosalie!" She felt his arms around her, and though his touch sickened her, she couldn't find the strength to push him away. "I'm sorry, Rosalie, I'm so very sorry…oh God, oh God…"

Her baby was gone, and it was all his doing. He had stolen her money – and perhaps she could have forgiven him for it – but now he had killed her baby, and she would never forgive him. She stared down at the blood that was now smeared across the floor and felt the hate welling up inside of her, struggling to burst out.

~xXx~

"You can have another baby, Rosalie. It was only an accident."

She drummed her fingers against the table, watching as her mother poured another cup of tea. Her mother would not meet her eye, and this bothered Rosalie more than her remark had. "He stole from me."

"He's your husband. What's yours is his. He didn't steal anything."

"He killed my baby!"

"It was an accident. Accidents happen, surely you know this."

"I don't want to be married to him anymore."

"Oh, Rosalie…" her mother looked at her now, stirring the tea listlessly. "I know it's hard right now, but it will get easier. You'll see."

She got up and left, brushing past her mother without replying. Her mother did not call after her or even try to stop her. It was clear that this was a problem she would have to deal with on her own.

She made her way into town, heading for the apothecary. She entered the little shop, closing the door quietly behind her. It was a dark, stuffy place, and it made her uncomfortable. She preferred to grow her own herbs and pick them while they were still fresh, and besides, the apothecary was expensive. Still, it sold things that she couldn't grow. She approached the counter.

"Yes? How may I help you?"

"I need arsenic," she said. She pulled off one of her bracelets. "I can't pay you, but I don't need much, and – "

"Money only," said the man, shaking his head.

"Please," she said. She took off another bracelet, placing both of them on the counter. "They're made of gold." The man picked on up, examining it. He looked at her, and she reached for her earrings now. "Please."

"All right." He took the bracelets and earrings, slipping them into his pocket, then turned to the row of shelves behind him. He picked up a small glass jar filled with white powder. He scooped some of it into a tiny brown pouch. "This is all I can give you," he said, handing it to her, "unless you have anything else to offer."

"No, this is fine." She took the pouch carefully. "Thank you, thank you so much."

~xXx~

Henri would only hurt her again; if she became pregnant again, he would kill that baby too, accident or not. She told herself this while she carefully emptied the pouch of arsenic into the wine bottle. She capped the bottle, shaking it vigorously until the white powder dissipated. Her hands shook as she put it down on the table. She climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up over her, and waited for Henri to come home.

Minutes ticked by, and she was beginning to drift into sleep when he finally entered the caravan. She rolled over so that her back was to him and held her breath. She listened as he sat at the table and picket up the wine bottle. She heard him uncap the bottle and drink. She listened and waited. Time seemed to pass with agonizing slowness, the minutes moving with the speed of years. Henri sat in the dark and drank. Rosalie wondered if the man in the apothecary had tricked her. Perhaps he hadn't given her arsenic. Perhaps he'd just stolen her jewelry and given her some harmless powder.

She was jolted from her thoughts by a loud thud. She sat up and turned. Henri was lying on the floor. She rose slowly and tiptoed over to him. She bent, carefully reaching out and taking his hand. She slid her fingers along his wrist, but did not feel a pulse. She sighed; relief mixed with terror washed over her. She put on her cloak and left the caravan, stepping over Henri's outstretched body.

She would have to leave Reims. She had known this all along, and she found that she would not miss much. Oh, she would miss the city and its familiarity. She would not miss her mother or Josette, who both ignored her pain and insisted that Henri was still a good man. No, she could not stay in Reims; besides, people would be suspicious of her. They might not think that Henri had simply drank himself to death. They might think that she had poisoned him. She would not risk a trial and execution for a man she did not love.

She turned down the road and broke into a run. The road led to Paris, and Paris was filled with people and places to hide. She could begin a whole new life in Paris. Perhaps she could even find love there.


	3. Rosalie and Enjolras, Part I

**Author's Note:**_The other half of Rosalie's ridiculously complicated backstory. Well, more like the first half of the other half of Rosalie's backstory. I broke it up into two parts because of how long it was._

* * *

1481

The New Year had come and gone while she was on the road, and she didn't notice its passing. All she noticed was the perpetual cold and hunger she felt, and she found herself wondering if she'd made a terrible mistake in leaving Reims. She wondered if they knew she'd murdered Henri and if they were looking for her; her mother would be so ashamed. Rosalie could never go back to her.

The loneliness was almost as terrifying as the cold was. She was certain she'd freeze to death if she didn't stop moving. The roadway was not clogged with travelers as it usually was in the warmer months. At least there were a few people; she had traded her shawl to a woman for bread. She shuddered beneath her cloak now, wishing she had the shawl back.

The gates of the city of Paris were not closed or locked, and she made her way into the city. Paris was huge and thick with crowds. It was also incredibly filthy; the streets were littered with garbage and crumpled paper. It looked as though she had just missed an enormous party and had arrived in time to help clean up. Paris was strange and frightening, but it was better than any alternative she could think of.

Rosalie had never stolen before, and she had nothing to trade. Her jewelry was gone, and Henri had spent all of her money on wine and beer. Seeing the stout little merchants in the marketplace standing at tables laden with bread and fruit made her stomach clench. The hunger was nearly as painful as losing the baby had been. She needed to eat, she had to. Perhaps someone would be kind to her. Perhaps she could trade her scarf for food. Perhaps she could even trade her body for food; she was far too hungry to care.

"Money only, Gypsy," said the man behind the fruit stand, glaring at her. He pointed to a nearby alley. "I'm sure you can earn some with the rest of the whores in the alley, though."

She stared at the fruit longingly, then looked over at the alleyway. She could see a man and woman in the shadows. True, she was hungry, but could she really stoop so low? Would she really let some stranger paw at her just so she could eat? She grabbed a piece of fruit without thinking and fled, darting through the crowd as the merchant bellowed at her. She didn't even know what kind of fruit she'd stolen, only that she was starving.

She heard the clattering of feet; the merchant must have had friends who were willing to go after her. Or perhaps it was the Parisian guards. Either way, the shouting only grew louder, and her legs refused to move any faster. They would catch her. They would catch her and cut her hand off for stealing. She would be forced to sell her body in alleyways for money.

She felt a pair of hands grab her. The hands were strong and forceful; one was pressed over her mouth, the other gripping her arm. The hands jerked her backwards, pulling her into a shadowy doorway. She felt hot breath near her ear. "Don't make a sound," a voice whispered, "don't move." She closed her eyes; she had escaped the guards only to be caught by a rapist. Was this fate really any better?

"Come on, she's gone this way!" The thundering of feet crescendoed, then began to fade away. She felt the hands release her and opened her eyes. She bolted from the doorway, bursting into the crowded street, and looked back over her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" the boy couldn't have been much older than her, and he had the dark skin and hair of a Gypsy.

"I'm fine," she said, looking down at the piece of fruit she was still clutching. It was a peach. "I just…I haven't eaten at all today, and I'm so hungry – "

He shrugged. "You're new here, aren't you?"

She nodded and bit into the peach. The flavor seemed to explode inside of her mouth, and she ate ravenously, ignoring the juice that was smearing her cheeks and dribbling down her chin. She was aware that the boy was watching her, that he probably thought she looked funny, but she was far too hungry to care about it. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Rosalie."

"I'm Barnabas. Listen, if you need – "

The clattering of horses' hooves suddenly filled the air. Rosalie turned and looked. The guards were coming back. There were two men on horseback, followed by at least four others on foot. They would undoubtedly recognize her as the girl who'd stolen from the fruit stand. She turned and ran, immediately forgetting about the boy, who was now calling after her.

She wove through the crowd, pushing back through the marketplace and into a side alley. "Hey! Find your own alley! This is my space!" The woman had the slovenly, disheveled look of a prostitute, and she drew a knife, brandishing it threateningly.

"I'm sorry!" Rosalie bolted. She left the alley, turning down a side street and finding a thin, wrought-iron fence. She scrambled over the fence, landing on cold dirt. She looked around, panting. She was standing in a graveyard. She glanced back over her shoulder. No one had followed her. Perhaps the guards hadn't even seen her. She sighed. The graveyard would be a good place to hide and rest until she could figure out what to do next. She would have to find some way to earn money.

She sat down, leaning against a tombstone and closed her eyes. She was so tired. She hadn't slept much since she'd left Reims. Perhaps it would be all right if she closed her eyes for a moment. The sun was shining down on her; she was a little warmer. She could sleep for a moment or two.

~xXx~

It was well after dark when she woke, and she cursed herself for sleeping so long. The graveyard was pitch black and spooky; she'd never be able to find her way out in the dark. She leaned against the tombstone, pulling her cloak around her, trying to stop shivering. She was hungry again, and rose. If she could find her way out of the graveyard and back to the marketplace, she could probably find a garbage can. As disgusting as it was, she could probably dig through it for some scraps.

A small, flickering light caught her eye, and she squinted into the darkness. Someone was in the graveyard. She tiptoed closer to the light, trying her best to stay hidden. She could see it much clearer now; a tall, hooded figure was holding a lamp. There was a small creature beside it, something with white fur and horns. A goat, perhaps. The figure was bending over a tomb, pushing the lid. The lid slowly moved, and the figure descended into it, followed by the goat. Rosalie gasped. Had she just seen the Devil? Was that tomb the entryway to Hell?

She looked around, then crossed herself and approached the tomb. She looked down at the lid, noticing grooves in the side, as though someone had carved a place to put a hand. She pushed at the lid, and it gave easily. It opened, revealing a great black hole. Surely the entryway to Hell would be filled with flames. Perhaps this was some sort of secret tunnel. Rosalie climbed inside, taking care to slide the lid closed. She could sleep in here for a while; it was shelter from the cold, after all.

She descended the stairs slowly, carefully, groping in one of her pockets for a match. She managed to find one and light it, and nearly screamed. The tunnel was lined with skeletons. Bones and skulls stretched on for what seemed like miles. There was no sign of the hooded figure or the goat. Rosalie looked back over her shoulder at the stairs. This had to be the entryway to Hell. It just had to be. It was warmer and safer than the graveyard, though. Perhaps it would be better to enter Hell willingly than to freeze to death in the graveyard; after all, she held no delusions about going to Heaven. She had killed her husband, and there was no room in Heaven for killers.

She lit another match, letting the first one burn out and began moving forward into the tunnel. The ground was soft, damp, and littered with footprints. At least she would not be the first person to enter Hell. She could feel the air moving, hot and sticky, against the back of her neck, and suddenly heard a thin, whispery voice in her ear.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?"

She froze as a gust of air extinguished the match and she was plunged into darkness. She felt a hand on her shoulder and screamed, jerking away. The hand grabbed at her, fingers digging into the fabric of her cloak. She wriggled out of the cloak, pushing her way into the darkness, away from the demon that was behind her. The light came suddenly and nearly blinded her. She blinked, shielding her eyes, then screamed again. She was surrounded by skeletons. They held torches and looked at her, their eyes glittering in their sockets. Surely they were demons; this had to be Hell.

"Prettiest intruder we've ever had," one of them said.

"Who sent you, darling? Was it old Claude Frollo or one of his guards?" the demon behind her, the one still holding her cloak came at her, grabbing at her wrist.

"Get away from me!" She pulled away from him.

"Wait a minute." One of the skeletons reached up, hooking his fingers into his eye sockets and pulling. The skull came away in his hand, revealing a familiar face. Rosalie gasped; it wasn't a demon at all. It was the boy from the marketplace, the one who'd pulled her into the doorway and kept her hidden from the guards. "I know you!"

"Y-yes," she stammered. "From the m-market – "

"She isn't a spy," said the boy. The other skeletons were removing their masks now, revealing boyish faces. This wasn't the entryway to Hell. These weren't demons at all; they were boys her own age wearing costumes. It was some kind of strange, terrifying farce.

"You certain, Barnabas?"

"Of course." He reached for her, gently extending his hand. "Come on," he said, "you're safe here."

She did not take his hand, but instead wrapped her arms around herself. "What – what place is this?" she asked.

"The Court of Miracles," said another boy. He was taller than the rest of them and had a shining gold earring in his left ear. "It's a safe haven for Gypsies. The guards have been searching for it for as long as we can remember."

"They'd burn it down if they found it."

"Which is why we have to execute spies and intruders."

"Please! I'm not a spy, I swear, I just – "

"Oh, we know that," said Barnabas, smiling at her. "You're a Gypsy, like us, and you need a place to stay."

She nodded. "Yes."

"Clopin, can't you see she's shivering? Give her back her cloak!"

"Sorry." The boy behind her – the boy who'd tried to grab her – handed her the cloak. He was staring at the hand-shaped bruise on her arm from where Henri had grabbed her. She took the cloak quickly, wrapping herself in it, hiding the bruise. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head, hoping he wouldn't ask any more questions. "Really," she turned to the rest of the boys. "I'm fine."

"Come on." They started moving, and she followed them. "How did you find us?" asked Barnabas.

"I…" it sounded foolish, but she said it anyway, "I think I followed the Devil." Laughter filled the air, and she felt her face growing warm. "I saw someone in a hood with a goat – "

"Oh, that was just Esmerelda." They emerged into an enormous, cavernous room. It was brightly lit and filled with Gypsies of all different shapes and sizes. Rosalie looked around, awestruck at the sight. Despite the lateness of the hour, the room was lively and bustling.

"Hey, Esmerelda!" A tall girl came forward, running to the group. A little white goat followed her, bleating.

"What is it?"

"This is Rosalie," said Barnabas, "she managed to follow you here."

"Well, I – "

"I hope they didn't terrorize you too much," said Esmerelda, her hands on her hips. "Come on, I'll help you find a place to sleep."

"There's room in my bed," called one of the boys, eliciting a laugh from the rest of them. Esmerelda rolled her eyes.

"Of course there is, Enjolras," she said, "between you and whoever you're seducing this week." This was followed by more laughter, and Rosalie saw the boy – the tallest one, the one with the small hoop earring in his left ear – blushing. "Who's the lucky woman this week?"

"I don't like to brag – "

"Yes you do."

"Fine. It's Lucia."

Esmerelda laughed now, tossing her thick black hair. "You mean 'Loose Lucia'?"

"Who hasn't been with Lucia?" asked Clopin, nudging Enjolras in the ribs. Rosalie realized that she was giggling and covered her mouth with her hand.

"Come on," said Barnabas. He was turning back to the tunnel now. "We're on duty for the rest of the night." He waved at Esmerelda. "Esmerelda, Rosalie, goodnight."

Esmerelda curtsied, still giggling. "Goodnight, Barnabas." The boys left, still laughing, probably at Enjolras's expense. "Come on." Esmerelda turned, leading her towards a large wooden structure. It looked like a lopsided house. "You can stay in here," she said, pushing aside the curtain over the doorway. The house was filled with children of all ages, most of them already curled up and asleep. "We call this the Orphan's House," explained Esmerelda, lowering her voice as they made their way to the back of the room. "If you have no family, you can stay here."

"Oh."

They found a space on the floor and settled down. Esmerelda pulled the little white goat onto her lap and began stroking its fur. Rosalie sat beside her and removed her cloak. She began arranging it on the floor.

"What happened to your arm, if you don't mind my asking?" Esmerelda was pointing at the bruise on Rosalie's arm.

"It's nothing," said Rosalie. "I…I…" Esmerelda was looking at her, her large green eyes full of care and concern. Was it possible for a complete and total stranger to be so kind and caring? Appearances were deceiving; Rosalie had entered the gates of Hell and found a Court of Miracles instead of the Devil. "My husband," she said finally. "He's dead now. He – he left me nothing, I had to leave – "

"Oh. Well…" Esmerelda reached out and patted her shoulder. "Listen, you're in a safe place now. Tomorrow I'll show you around Paris. Do you know how to dance?"

Rosalie shook her head. "I'm a midwife," she said. "I mean, my mother was one, and she trained me…"

"Oh, well that's perfect! I know a woman who's expecting a baby, and you can help her!"

Rosalie nodded. "Of course I can."

The goat had fallen asleep in Esmerelda's arms, and now she leaned back against the wall, yawning. Rosalie lay down on her cloak, letting her eyes drift shut.

~xXx~

The months had flown by and the weather had slowly grown warmer. Rosalie found that Paris was a fascinating place. It was large and busy, full of life. She had learned to avoid the guards. She did not steal, and so far the grocer hadn't recognized her as the girl who'd stolen a peach from him back in January. Enjolras was a pickpocket, and, though she barely knew him, she found herself secretly fearing for his safety.

"Enjolras never gets caught," said Esmerelda. "Though I do wish he would stop stealing." She sighed. "Everyone says that Gypsies are thieves, and Enjolras makes it true."

"He ought to have a trade," said Rosalie. "You know, something respectable like his brothers."

Enjolras was the oldest of three boys, and his youngest brother, Pierre, often followed him everywhere. Pierre was seventeen, certainly old enough to go off on his own, but he adored his older brother. Wherever Enjolras was, Pierre was never far behind, and if Enjolras minded, he rarely let it show. Rosalie liked Pierre enough; he worked as a gravedigger, though, and she found that he always smelled of death. Still, he held an honest job, unlike Enjolras.

"Aren't you afraid you'll get caught?" she asked. She was sitting with Enjolras behind the Orphan's House. She liked the Orphan's House well enough; it was a place for her to sleep. She'd spent every night safely within its walls beside Esmerelda and occasionally Lucia, who, Rosalie found, seemed to live up to her nickname. Rosalie bent over a bucket, scrubbing a blouse. Enjolras sat beside her, peeling an orange.

"No," he said, grinning at her. "I never get caught."

"You're bound to someday."

He laughed, then handed her a little red coin pouch. She took it, examining it. It was empty, and had gold lettering stitched onto the side. She pointed to the letters. "What does it say?"

"It says my name," he said.

She ran her fingertip over the little gold stitches. She'd never seen Enjolras's name written down before. She couldn't really read or write; she knew certain words, though. She knew her name, and now she knew Enjolras's. "Hide it," he said.

"What?"

"Hide it somewhere on you, and I'll steal it so fast you won't even notice."

She bit her lower lip, concentrating as she looked at the empty coin pouch. "I can hide it anywhere on my person?"

"Anywhere."

She looked at Enjolras and smiled as she tucked the pouch into her brassiere. It felt soft, almost velvety, and she briefly found herself wondering how Enjolras's hand would feel. "Do you still think you can steal it back?"

"Well, I'd love to try." He edged closer to her, sliding his arm around her waist. He kissed her, and though it startled her for a moment, she didn't pull away. She closed her eyes, letting him kiss her. His lips tasted like oranges. She felt his hand against her cheek, his fingers weaving through her hair. His hands were so warm. She gripped his shoulders, letting him kiss the side of her neck. He was nothing like Henri, and she wasn't sure how she felt about it. She enjoyed his touch, his kiss, far more than Henri's, but at the same time, it felt strange to her. She had only ever known Henri; his touch was somewhat rough. Enjolras's hands moved gently, slowly towards her breasts, and she brushed them away. He wouldn't get the coin pouch that easily.

He was grinning at her as he rose, pulling her to her feet. He held her, his arms wrapped around her waist as he kissed her. His kisses drove her wild; it had been a long time since she'd been touched, and Henri had not been a particularly enjoyable lover. She wanted more and reached for the buckle on Enjolras's belt. She felt his hands on her legs now, shoving her skirt rudely up around her waist. He lifted her, pushing her against the wall, and she gasped. He was suddenly rough and tender at the same time; she'd never known such a combination could exist, and she loved it. She moved with him, kissing his face and neck, moaning into his shoulder.

He murmured her name and she gripped his shoulders, unaware that her fingernails would've broken his skin if it hadn't been for his shirt. She kissed him, desperately wishing that the moment would last forever and somehow knowing that he felt the same way.

They stopped finally, leaning against the wall, panting and staring at each other. Enjolras tugged his trousers back up, buckling the belt quickly. She smoothed her skirt, hoping that no one would notice the wrinkles. Enjolras turned, reaching for the orange he'd abandoned. He picked it up, wiping it on his shirt before breaking off a slice and handing it to her. She took it and ate it; he had tasted like oranges, and eating the orange made her want to kiss him again. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and was cut off by a shrill scream from the Court. They both turned, rushing out from behind the Orphan's House and into the Court, neither one thinking of how suspicious it would look.

"Oh God – Pierre!" Enjolras ran to his younger brother, who was being carried by Clopin and Barnabas. Rosalie raced after him, letting the half-eaten orange slice fall from her hand.

Pierre's legs were mangled, so crushed that they were barely recognizable as legs at all. He was covered in blood and screaming in agony. Clopin was saying something about an accident near Notre Dame, that something had fallen, but Rosalie could barely hear him. Enjolras turned to her, his dark eyes full of tears, and seeing them frightened her.

"Rosalie, you're a midwife," he said, "you – you must know something of medicine – "

"Towels," she said, the word leaping from her mouth almost instinctively. "I need blankets and towels." A crowd was beginning to gather, and she looked around frantically. "Please, we need privacy, we need a room – "

"There's space in my caravan," Barnabas was saying, "come on."

Pierre shrieked in pain as Barnabas and Clopin hefted him and half-carried-half-dragged him to the caravan. Rosalie and Enjolras ran after them. "Enjolras," she said, "go get your mother."

"What?"

"If – if I can't save him, she should be there – "

He stared at her, tears rolling from his eyes. "What do you mean, if you can't save him?"

"I – I've never tended to a wound like this!" she cried, "please, I'll try my best, but you should go get your mother! She should be with him!"

He stared at Pierre, then turned and ran, tearing off through the Court as though the Devil was chasing him. Rosalie burst into the caravan. Barnabas and Clopin had laid Pierre on the floor and were piling sheets and towels beside him for Rosalie. Rosalie knelt by him, looking at his legs. She had set a broken leg once, but it had been a clean, simple break. Pierre's legs looked like a mess of bones, and there was so much blood she couldn't see them properly.

"I need hot water," she said, picking up a sheet and ripping a long thin strip from it. She tied it around Pierre's thigh. He moaned in pain and thrashed. "Someone hold him!"

Barnabas knelt, pinning Pierre's torso to the floor. Rosalie heard the door opening and closing and knew that Clopin had rushed out to get water. "What happened?" she asked.

"You know how they're renovating Notre Dame, fixing the roof and all?" asked Barnabas. Rosalie nodded and looked down at Pierre's legs. The left leg was slightly better than the right, and she gripped his knee now. He screamed as she pushed the bones back into place. "A stone fell from the roof," continued Barnabas, "it…it landed on him."

"Pierre! Oh God, my baby!"

Rosalie glanced over her shoulder; Enjolras was in the doorway with his mother and other brother, Etienne. The boys' mother rushed to Pierre's side, nearly pushing Barnabas out of the way. Rosalie looked up at Enjolras. "I need your help."

"Anything." He knelt by her. She nodded to the sheet.

"I need more strips." She feared that Pierre's leg would slide apart if she let go of it. The sheet would hopefully hold the bones together and staunch the bleeding. Enjolras began ripping the sheet, tearing great strips quickly. Rosalie wound them around Pierre's leg, wincing as they immediately turned red. The mother was sobbing, cradling Pierre's head in her lap and holding his hand. Pierre had stopped screaming and was moaning, shuddering and gasping for breath. His eyes looked thick and glazed. "Go…go hold his hand," whispered Rosalie, "be with him – "

"Let me help you – "

"I don't know what else I can do," she whispered, "I don't know if I can save him. He's your brother. Go and hold him."

Enjolras edged closer to Pierre, gripping his free hand and reaching down to stroke his hair. Clopin had returned, sweaty and panting, with hot water. Rosalie wasn't sure how much good washing the wounds would do at this point, but she dabbed at them anyway, shivering as the water in the basin turned red.

"What else can I do?" asked Clopin.

"Help me with his legs," she said. "Here, hold him at the knee, tight as you can."

Clopin obeyed, staring at her while he held Pierre's right leg. Rosalie looked down, mentally lining up the bones, then gripped Pierre's leg and shoved with all her might. The bones popped together, making Pierre moan again. He should be screaming, thought Rosalie, not moaning. There's nothing I can do for him. The thought chilled her, and she looked at Enjolras. He was looking into Pierre's face, whispering something to him and trying to smile through his tears.

"Keep holding his leg," said Rosalie, finding herself close to tears. She wound the bandages around Pierre's leg, shaking her head. He bled through the bandages the moment they touched him. She grabbed more bandages, piling them onto the ones she'd already applied.

"Rosalie." She felt Clopin touch her shoulder and looked at him. "He's gone."

She looked over at Pierre's face. It was obscured by his mother, who was bent over him, sobbing. Rosalie gasped, staring down at her hands now. They were smeared with blood. She was used to seeing them like this, but the blood shocked her nonetheless. She watched helplessly as Enjolras and Etienne held their brother's body and wept with their mother.

"Come on." Clopin helped her to her feet. "They need their privacy."

He led her from the caravan. A thick crowd had formed outside of the caravan, and Rosalie turned away from the questions. She couldn't face the people, couldn't bring herself to tell them that she hadn't been able to save Pierre's life. She was dimly aware that Clopin was speaking, telling the crowd what had happened and asking it to disperse. Rosalie made her way back to the Orphan's House and sat behind it, leaning against the wall where she and Enjolras had made love less than twenty minutes ago.

"Rosalie?" She was relieved to see Esmerelda. "Are you all right?"

"He's dead," she whispered.

Esmerelda sat down beside her and handed her a canteen. Rosalie poured the water over her hands, watching as the blood washed away. She rubbed her eyes, suddenly becoming aware of the empty coin pouch that was still in her brassiere. She took it out carefully, looking down at it. Enjolras hadn't taken back the pouch. He'd had opportunity, of course; he could've done it easily while they made love. He hadn't. She stared at it, turning it over in her hands.

"Rosalie."

She looked up when she heard Enjolras's voice. He sat down beside her. His eyes were bloodshot and he was covered with dirt. Rosalie hadn't realized how long she'd been sitting behind the Orphan's House, just staring at the empty coin pouch. She handed it to him. He stared at it as if confused. "Oh. I…I forgot about this…" He pocketed the purse, laughing dryly. "I guess I couldn't steal it from you. We…Etienne and I dug the grave…for Pierre…I thought you might want to come to the funeral…"

"Yes," she said. They stood up, and he took hold of her hand. His hands were rough and his fingernails were caked with dirt, but she didn't care. He led her towards a corner of the Court of Miracles that she had never visited before. A small group was already standing around a shallow hole in the ground. Pierre had been wrapped in a blanket, shrouded completely by it. It did not look as though his legs had just been crushed; Rosalie half-expected him to sit up at any moment.

She watched as the crowd grew, listening as people stepped forward and said a few words in praise of Pierre. Each person who spoke about him threw a handful of dirt over his body; soon the blanket was all but invisible beneath it. Rosalie stepped forward, letting go of Enjolras's hand.

"I didn't really know Pierre," she said, "but…he was very kind, and he always smiled. He…I'm sorry I couldn't…" She felt the tears begin to stream down her face, and she felt an arm around her shoulders. She leaned against Enjolras, letting her tears fall.

"You tried," he said, "and Pierre was grateful that you did."

* * *

**Author's Note**: _Thrilling conclusion to come._


	4. Rosalie and Enjolras, Part II

**Author's Note:**_ and now, the thrilling conclusion of Rosalie's backstory..._

**

* * *

**

STILL 1481…

The days seemed to blur together. She found herself hanging out behind the Orphan's House, and more often than not, she found Enjolras waiting for her. She held him in her arms while he mourned his younger brother. She kissed away his tears and stroked his hair, she liked to think that she was taking his pain away from him, that she was making it easier for him to bear. They made love; it was always quick and passionate. They let the act consume them, let it burn away their grief.

It was after the second month had passed when she realized that her bloody curse hadn't come at its usual time. The sickness came next, and she found herself unable to keep her breakfast in her stomach. She lay awake, staring into the darkness and wishing that she knew what to do.

"Are you all right? You seem worried."

"I…" she looked at Esmerelda, wringing her hands. She had to tell someone; the secret was eating her alive. Perhaps Esmerelda would know what to do. "I think I'm pregnant."

Esmerelda gasped. "Who's the father?" she said, her voice an excited whisper.

"Enjolras."

Esmerelda blinked, looking puzzled. "Are you certain?"

"Yes! He's…he's the only man I've been with since I came here…"

"Hm. That's strange."

"Why?"

"Well…Enjolras likes to…brag about the girls he's been with," said Esmerelda, "he hasn't mentioned you…"

The whole mess was just getting worse. She knew that Enjolras had been with other women; he was handsome and charming to boot. Was he ashamed of being with her? Was that why he wouldn't brag about bedding her? "I don't know what to do," she said.

"You can't get rid of it?"

She shook her head. "I don't know how."

"No, I mean after it's born," said Esmerelda. "You can leave foundlings on the steps of Notre Dame, people adopt them all the time."

The thought horrified her. The very idea of abandoning her child, her flesh and blood, sickened her to the core. Even if Enjolras wanted nothing to do with her, even if she was bore an illegitimate child and was branded a whore, she couldn't abandon the baby. The baby would be part of her, part of Enjolras as well. The baby would be a product of her love for him; she believed now that she did love him. She loved him very much, and she couldn't give away his baby. Even if he left her, even if he abandoned her, she wouldn't abandon his child.

She shook her head. "I can't do that," she said.

Esmerelda nodded, putting her arm around Rosalie's shoulder. Rosalie leaned against her. "We'll think of something," she said.

~xXx~

"I need to ask you if it's true."

"If what's true?" She'd been trying to work up the nerve to tell Enjolras all week. She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. She wanted to tell him, she wanted to more than anything, but every time she opened her mouth, the words refused to come.

"About the baby."

"Who told you?" She had begged Esmerelda not to tell, had made her swear it. This was her burden, her responsibility, and she would be the one to bear it. Besides, it wouldn't be proper for someone else to tell Enjolras. How could Esmerelda betray her trust like this?

"Clopin overheard you and Esmerelda," he said. "Is it really my baby?"

"Yes."

Enjolras nodded, stroking her hair absently. He had a faraway look in his eyes, as though he was lost in a daydream. She wondered what he was thinking. She was furious with Clopin; he had no right to spy on her or to tell Enjolras about the baby. She swore that when she next saw him she'd slap him.

"I suppose we should get married," said Enjolras. His voice was calm and nonchalant. It was the same tone he used when commenting on something trite and banal, like the weather. Rosalie stared at him. He looked at her, smiling.

"I – I'd like that." It felt like a stupid thing to say, but she couldn't think of anything else.

"I do love you," he said, kissing her forehead. "At least, I think I do. I've never felt this way about anyone else."

"I love you," she said, "I love you so much."

~xXx~

"I really shouldn't be wearing white."

Esmerelda laughed. "Oh please, if virgins were the only ones who wore white to their weddings, the color wouldn't exist!"

"I was a virgin when I married Henri."

"I'm only teasing," said Esmerelda, adjusting the veil. "I still say I'm the last virgin left in the Court of Miracles, though."

"Well, you may be," said Rosalie, "but you haven't found the right man yet."

"Come on. Enjolras is waiting for you."

Rosalie nodded, twirling in front of the mirror one last time. She had wanted something simple and quiet, but there was no such thing as 'simple and quiet' in the Court of Miracles. People were pooling their resources, scrounging up enough food for a banquet, gathering enough musicians to form a band. The people wanted a party, and they were determined to throw one. After all, weddings were joyous occasions. It would be a good excuse for people to dance and have a few drinks.

Rosalie climbed the steps of the platform as quickly as she could. Enjolras was standing at the top, looking tall and handsome as ever. He grinned at her, and she felt her face growing hot. She took his hands in hers, smiling up at him. Traditionally, the bride or groom's father would be the one to marry the couple; Enjolras's father had disappeared after Pierre was born, though, and her own father was dead. Enjolras's mother stood before them, beaming with pride and holding a clay jug with two handles.

"Do you, Rosalie, promise to love and honor my son, Enjolras?"

"I do."

"And do you, Enjolras, promise to love and honor your wife, Rosalie?"

"I do."

She handed them the jug. They drank, and Rosalie was so thrilled she could barely even taste the wine. Enjolras raised the jug high in the air, showing it off, then smashed it. The crowd cheered and the musicians began to play. "I have always wanted a daughter," whispered Enjolras's mother, hugging her. "You are welcome in my family, Rosalie."

"Thank you."

~xXx~

"Rosalie, I meant to ask you…"

She rolled over and looked at him. Though she and Enjolras had made love dozens of times, this had been the first time they'd done it properly in a bed. It had been strange to feel sheets on her skin and to know that they had complete privacy. It was also strange to be sleeping in a bed; she couldn't remember the last time she'd slept in one. She'd spent every night in the Court of Miracles curled up on the floor of the Orphan's House. Enjolras wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. She snuggled against him, savoring the softness of the sheets and the warmth of his body.

"I was wondering if the baby's a boy or a girl."

She shrugged. "I don't know," she said. She looked down at her stomach. It was still perfectly flat; there was no indication that a baby was growing within her at all. "There's really no way to tell."

"Oh." Enjolras began to stroke her hair. "If it is a boy, though…can we name him after my brother?"

"Of course." She kissed him. He kissed her back, running his fingers through her hair. She loved him so much.


	5. Esmerelda and Claude

**1482**

She expected to be brought immediately to the gallows and was surprised when she arrived at the Palace of Justice. The guards refused to look at her as they brought her inside, dragging her down a winding corridor and shoving her into a narrow room. She jerked away from them, glad to be free of their grip. She rubbed her arms; fortunately, bruises had not begun to form on them. She looked around now. The room was a small one, but it was brightly lit and filled with various torture devices. Esmerelda shuddered.

The door swung open again, and she spun around to face it. Claude Frollo entered the room, looking smugly satisfied. She felt her stomach clench and glared at him, struggling not to look afraid. She stared at him, forcing herself to be confident. She would refuse him. No matter what he did to her, she would refuse him

"You have a decision to make, Esmerelda."

"You already know my answer," she said. "Just kill me." In her mind's eye, she could see the gallows, the noose waiting for her neck. Or perhaps it was the stake; he had accused her of witchcraft, after all. He would no doubt have her burned at the stake for it. It didn't matter. She would gladly give up her life if it meant defying him.

"Oh no," he said. "That isn't the decision at all." He chuckled now. "I won't have you killed if you refuse me. I'll have _them_ killed."

She felt her heart begin to sink, but she shook her head. She had to force herself not to tremble. "No. I don't believe you!"

He turned to the door now. "Bring her in," he called.

The door burst open and four guards entered. They were dragging a Gypsy girl with them. She couldn't have been older than thirteen. She thrashed and kicked, shouting defiantly at them. Frollo watched, his head tilted to the side. For a moment, he looked like a curious cat watching a trapped mouse. "Do what you like with her, then cut her throat."

The guards moved almost instantly, like wolves devouring prey. One was holding the girl's arms behind her back. Another stepped in front of her, ripping her blouse open. The girl's eyes went wide, as though she'd just suddenly realized what was about to happen to her, and she began to scream.

"No!" Esmerelda rushed forward, grabbing at the guards. There were four of them, and they were all bigger and stronger than she was, but if she could stop just one of them…Frollo grabbed her arm, jerking her back. His grip was surprisingly strong, and his nails dug painfully into her skin. "Make them stop!"

"Say it."

She looked at him now. She did not want him. She had sworn that she would never, ever give in to him, but could she really let that poor girl suffer? And if she did, could she live with herself? "I choose you," she shouted. She glanced back at the girl. She was crying.

"Please, please don't – "

"Tonight's your lucky night, girl. I'm going to make a proper woman out of you!"

"I choose you," screamed Esmerelda, "now make them stop!"

Frollo released her and stepped away from her. She felt dizzy, as though the strength had been drained from her. She fell, sinking to her knees; she barely felt the cold stone floor. Frollo was speaking with the guards, scolding them almost playfully, as though they were naughty schoolboys. Esmerelda looked at the girl. The guards had let go of her, and she was standing a few feet away from them. She was hugging herself, her head bent, her long black hair obscuring her face. She was sobbing. Her blouse hung in tatters around her shoulders, and she pulled the thin fabric closer to her.

"Bring her back to the dungeon," Frollo was saying, pointing to the girl as he spoke. The guards moved towards her, and she cried out, jerking away from them. They grabbed her arms and dragged her from the room.

"Your friends will be released within the hour," said Frollo, approaching her now. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet. "You may watch if you like, my dear."

She was barely aware of the priest standing before them. His voice seemed to be faraway and faded, as though she couldn't hear him properly, but she nodded along anyway. She let Frollo kiss her; it was a quick, chaste kiss. She did not kiss him back, and neither he nor the priest seemed to notice. She had been to weddings before, and this did not feel like one. Weddings were joyous occasions. They were loud and cheerful and fun, and everyone was happy. This was not a wedding.

She followed Frollo now, barely paying attention to where they were going. He had mentioned something about releasing the rest of the Gypsies; she hoped that he would not go back on his word. He opened a door now, and she saw that they were in the dungeon. He pulled her into the room.

It was a large room filled with cells. Her friends had been crammed into the cells; they were pressed against the bars. They reached for her when they saw her, calling her name. She couldn't bring herself to look at them. She couldn't bear to look up and see the girl who had nearly been raped before her very eyes. She stared at the floor, listening as Frollo promised to free them. He had to shout to be heard; the room was loud. Everyone seemed to be yelling. Voices melted together, becoming a mindless, babbling cacophony.

She was nearly relieved when Frollo took her by the wrist and led her from the room. "They will be released, my dear," he said. His tone was almost loving, and it made her skin crawl. "A dungeon is hardly an appropriate place for our wedding night."

His words chilled her, and she stopped. She stared at him. He was looking at her, frowning in confusion. This was not a wedding night. Wedding nights were joyful; the groom would carry his loving bride over the threshold. They would become one, and they would do so with love and tenderness. No, this was not a wedding night. There would be no love, no tenderness, no joy.

Frollo tugged on her wrist, and she had to force herself to follow him. Regardless of what he thought, she would be spending her wedding night – and the rest of her life – in a dungeon.

"Here, put this on." He handed her something soft and purple. She held the garment up; it was a dress. It was purple, with gold and silver trim, and a long, flowing skirt. It was a beautiful dress, something she would have loved to wear in a different circumstance. She looked at him now. He nodded to the corner of the room. "There's a screen over there, if you desire privacy."

She moved behind the screen mutely. She let the itchy white dress fall from her body, not caring when it landed on the floor. She put the purple dress on, tugging it over her head. It was too small for her and uncomfortably tight. The fabric was soft and satiny, but gripped her painfully, like a vice. She pulled on it, wishing that it did a better job of covering her breasts.

She knew that he was waiting for her on the other side of the screen, and she took a deep breath. She stepped out from behind the screen. He was seated on the bed, staring at her. He beckoned to her, and she moved closer to him. His eyes wandered along her body, and she began to hate the purple dress. "Here." He was holding a tambourine, and he handed it to her now. "Dance for me."

Esmerelda's hands were shaking as she took the tambourine from him. She held it, staring down at it for a moment. Tears, hot and prickly, stung at her eyes, and she turned away from him. She would not let him see her cry. She shook the tambourine and began to dance, swaying to imaginary music and trying to blink back her tears. She could feel his eyes on her as she twirled; she was aware of how the skirt billowed as she moved, exposing her legs.

She did not hear him rise or move toward her, and she dropped the tambourine in shock when he grabbed her wrist. He pulled her to him, pressing his body against hers. She looked up at him, her tears blurring her vision. He touched her face with his free hand now, and she stiffened, turning away from him. "Do not resist me, Esmerelda," he whispered, tightening his grip on her wrist. She felt herself gasp; his grip was unnaturally tight, and she feared he would break her arm. She shut her eyes, shuddering as he kissed her. His mouth attacked hers hungrily, and she hoped that she wouldn't vomit. It would only anger him.

His kisses were rough, and he wound his fingers into her hair, holding her head still while he kissed her mouth and face. His mouth moved along her neck, down towards her shoulders, and she felt him let go of her wrist. The pain had barely begun to subside when she felt his hands on her breasts now. She shut her eyes; forcing back the tears was futile, and he didn't seem to care anyway. His hands were large and thin, and they were warm, almost hot. She had expected his touch to be icy cold. She stepped back, trying to pull away from him.

"Do not resist me." He grabbed her hair, jerking her head back and making her cry out in surprise. He stared at her, his blue eyes drilling into hers. One of his hands still lingered on her breast, and he gripped the thin fabric of the dress now. She heard it tear and felt his hand slide against one of her breasts. "I am your husband now," he said, "you cannot resist me."

He let go of her hair now and pulled at the dress again. He tore the bodice open, ripping it from her shoulders. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him. She felt his lips against her neck; his kisses were rough and hungry, as though he couldn't control himself. His mouth moved down her neck and along her shoulders, towards her exposed breasts. She stiffened, forcing herself not to push him away from her. She desperately wanted to kick and scream and claw at him, to fight her way past him and rush out the door. She couldn't; she was his wife, his prisoner, and she was forced to let him have his way with her.

Her eyes moved to the door now. She found herself hoping that Phoebus would come charging in, sword drawn, ready to save her. It was a stupid, foolish hope; for all she knew, Phoebus was dead. The door would not open, and no one would save her now. She felt Frollo grabbing at the fabric of the purple skirt now, winding his fingers around it. She shuddered as he tore it, letting the skirt fall to the ground at her feet. He was staring at her now, and his stare made her uncomfortable. Unconsciously, she moved her hands, covering herself. He grabbed her wrists, roughly forcing her hands to her sides and held them there while he stared at her.

"You are beautiful," he said, slowly releasing her wrists. She had to fight the urge to cover herself again. "You are so beautiful." He put his arm around her, reaching up and stroking her hair. She suddenly felt his fingers inside of her. She cried out, slapping at his hand. He tightened his grip on her hair, jerking her head back and forcing her to stare at him. His fingers moved now, probing; he had not bothered to remove the large, ornate rings he wore, and they scraped painfully against her.

"I knew you weren't a virgin flower," he said. "How many men have you been with?"

"Just one," she gasped. She had lost her virginity to Phoebus; it had been nowhere near as painful as this. Phoebus had been kind and loving and tender with her. He had kissed her and held her. She refused to think about him now. Thinking him while Frollo groped at her would only taint his memory.

"No matter." He withdrew his fingers and let go of her hair. He pushed her. It was a swift, sudden movement, and it caught her off-guard. She fell backwards, landing on the bed. He was suddenly on top of her, his hands pushing her thighs apart. She wanted to scream as she felt him enter her. She bit her lip, holding back the screams that struggled to burst from her throat. He moaned, oblivious to her pain, running his hands over her body and kissing her neck.

When he finally stopped, it felt as though an eternity had passed. He rolled off of her, panting. She sat up, shaking. She looked down at herself now. Her body didn't look any different to her; nevertheless, she felt dirty. "I…I'd like to wash myself," she said, not looking at him.

"There's a basin with some towels." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him point. She rose, her legs wobbling, and walked to the basin. The water was frigid, but she didn't care. She bathed quickly, scrubbing her thighs until they felt scratched and raw. No amount of scrubbing could possibly wash away the filthy feeling between her legs; she shivered from the cold, hugging herself as she glanced back over at him. He lay there, watching her with cold blue eyes.

"Is there something I can wear?"

He pointed, and she turned, noticing for the first time the chair beside the basin. A white cotton nightdress lay folded neatly on top of it. She took it and pulled it on quickly. It was soft, and she felt a bit warmer. She looked at him now. He stared at her; no doubt he expected her to sleep beside him now, just as a wife would. She climbed into the bed slowly. She pulled the blankets over her, momentarily stunned at their warmth and softness.

She felt him wrap his arms around her, nestling against her. She felt his hands against her, and she suddenly found herself wishing that she was dead. Death's cold embrace would be far more pleasant than Frollo's. The thought frightened her, reminding her of nights she'd lain awake in the bitter cold, praying that death would not claim her. She buried her face in the pillow and let herself cry.


	6. Clopin and Cassandra

**1486**

Cassandra had been helping him with the puppet theatre every day for nearly four years; he had grown so used to seeing her that he hadn't noticed her body changing, blossoming into womanhood. It wasn't something that had happened overnight, of course. It had been a slow process, and he'd been too distracted to notice it. Paris was changing around him, and the city's new developments were more pressing than Cassandra's. Frollo had tightened his stranglehold on the city; there was a curfew in place, though it only seemed to apply to those of Gypsy descent, and now there were weekly raids on the Court of Miracles. Now that Frollo knew of its location, he appeared there regularly with his guards. Clopin never knew what they were searching for; they probably weren't searching for anything. They were probably just looking to terrorize the Gypsies, and they were doing a damned good job of it.

He had begun to notice Cassandra in a new way only recently. The way her hips swayed when she walked, the way the sun glinted in her hair, the fullness of her lips, her chocolate-colored eyes – he noticed it all now, and it frightened him a bit. Cassandra was seventeen, a full ten years younger than he, and her father was fiercely protective of her. She was, after all, his only daughter; he had three sons, all older than Cassandra. Ares, Damocles, and Barnabas had helped find and catch the men who'd attacked Cassandra, and they had been especially brutal in avenging their little sister.

Besides, she would never see him in a romantic light. He'd acted more like an older brother to her for so long. Clopin could force himself to be content with this; he'd never stop loving her, of course. If she found happiness with someone else, someone her own age, he'd congratulate her and dance at her wedding. It seemed unlikely, though, that this would happen, and this saddened him.

Cassandra had not been raped, but the stigma of it followed her regardless. Boys looked at her and saw the girl who'd been dragged kicking and screaming from a prison cell, only to be returned later, holding her blouse together and weeping. It was easy for them to think that she had been raped, and they chose to avoid her; he'd heard people whisper, calling her 'damaged goods,' and it angered him. He'd spoken out against it on more than one occasion, though no one seemed to listen to him. It seemed as though Cassandra was doomed to remain alone for the rest of her life, and he felt doomed to love her from afar.

"Come on, Clopin, teach me to read!"

He was exhausted. He'd had no real experience raising a child, and he found it taxing to say the least. Giovanni was an active little thing; he loved running around, shouting and making all sorts of noise. Clopin was forever chasing after him. The boy would simply not sit still, not even for an instant. The only time he could possibly carve out to teach Cassandra how to read was after Giovanni had gone to sleep, and by then he himself was tired too.

But Cassandra looked at him, her eyes dark and bright at the same time, and he pushed himself to stay awake. He loved sitting on the floor of the caravan with the lamp between them; she looked lovely in the lamplight. She was a smart girl, smarter than he'd thought, and she was learning quickly. He secretly loved the way her eyes lit up as she read a sentence, the words flowing through her voice with ease. She would bring scraps of paper she had found on the ground, reading snippets of flyers, posters, lists, and letters.

He leaned back against the wall, watching as she pulled another piece of paper from her skirt. "This will have to be the last one for tonight," he said, "I'm exhausted…"

"Of course."

He let his eyes slide shut, not quite knowing that he was drifting away until he heard her speak. He hadn't realized what she'd said until she repeated herself, and he opened his eyes. He sat up, looking at her. She was staring down at the piece of paper, biting her lower lip in what was either embarrassment or concentration. Even in the dim lamplight, he could see her blushing.

"I didn't find this paper," she said, looking at him. "I wrote it."

She handed it to him, and he looked at it. Her handwriting was large, shaky and child-like, but the words were clear. _I love you_. Could she really feel this way about him? He put the paper down now, taking her hand. She slid closer to him, and he reached out and touched her face. Her skin was smooth, and he was surprised at how warm her cheek was. She seemed to move closer to him, and he closed his eyes as he kissed her.

Her lips were soft and warm, and she responded to him timidly at first. He kissed her face, her neck, her shoulders; her skin was so soft, so smooth, it was like he just couldn't stop. He didn't want to, despite the shrill voice he heard screaming in his head. Perhaps it was his conscience. _She's ten years younger than you! She's practically a child! What are you doing? Her father will kill you! _He ignored the voice, silencing it as Cassandra edged her way onto his lap, straddling him. She kissed him hungrily, guiding his hands to her breasts. She ran her hands through his hair and moaned his name; it sent chills down his spine, and he found himself fumbling with the buttons on her blouse. Her body was so warm, so soft.

He felt her hands on his belt buckle now, and the voice in his head came screaming once again. _What is the matter with you? Do you want her brothers to castrate you?_ He had to force himself to push her hands away.

"No," he whispered, staring at her now, "this – this isn't right…"

"What do you mean?" she said. She glanced over her shoulder at the narrow little bed where Giovanni was sleeping. "He's a heavy sleeper, he won't wake up – "

"No, that isn't it…" The hurt in her eyes was like a knife through his heart, and he reached up to stroke her hair. "I should marry you first."

She gasped. "You…you want to marry me?"

"Yes." He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it. "I love you."

She nodded and buttoned her blouse, her hands flying against the crisp white fabric. She slithered off of his lap and began fixing her hair. She smiled at him. "I will marry you," she said, kissing him on the cheek and leaving. He watched her go, then rose and put out the lamp. He lay down in his bed, pulling the blankets over him.

Clopin closed his eyes; his mind whirled now. He would have to get her father's consent. He was a friendly man, and Clopin liked him very much. He hoped that the feeling was mutual. That would certainly make things easier.

"Ah, Clopin! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Leo clapped him on the back; it was the way he greeted everybody, and though it irritated Clopin, he never let it show. Leo was a huge burly man with a great bushy beard, and more often than not, he was in a jovial mood. Clopin swallowed, making an effort to stand up straighter and ignoring the pain in his back from where Leo had slapped him.

"I was wondering if we could speak in private," he said, glancing around. As usual, the Court of Miracles was teeming with people. He could see Cassandra out of the corner of his eye. She turned away quickly, busying herself with some sort of task. It looked like sewing.

"Of course." Leo turned and led him to his caravan. He opened the door, and Clopin followed him inside. Clopin removed his hat. "Sit." Leo's caravan was a large one; after all, it housed himself, his wife, and his two youngest children. Clopin sat down on a stool, watching as Leo took the one opposite him. It creaked under his weight. "Now, what is it you wanted to talk about?"

"I…I wanted to talk to you about Cassandra."

"What about her?"

Clopin swallowed. He hadn't realized just how nervous he was until now. He wondered if he was shaking, and hoped that he wasn't. "I want to marry her."

Leo stared at him, stroking his beard with one massive hand. The silence was unbearable, thick and heavy; Clopin felt as though he would choke on it. Leo's stare was making him uncomfortable. It was as though the room had suddenly grown warmer, and Clopin felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back.

"I need to think about it," said Leo, standing up rather suddenly. Clopin rose, moving quickly and knocking over the stool he'd been sitting on. "I'll get back to you tomorrow." His voice was flat and unreadable, and Clopin felt his heart sink.

"Yes. Of course. I'll see you then." He left quickly, clutching his hat so hard his knuckles had gone white. His stomach clenched painfully; it was as though someone had punched him. He passed Cassandra without looking at her, dimly aware of her father calling her name. He heard her turn and run to him.

The day passed with agonizing slowness. He spent the majority of it inside of his caravan with Giovanni. For once, Giovanni seemed content to sit on the floor and stack his blocks, and Clopin was relieved. He sat with his nephew, helping him create and knock down little towers. Giovanni laughed and chattered; he was so young and blissful. Clopin hoped that he would never feel the pain that came with not knowing. He replayed his conversation with Leo over and over, desperately searching for clues about his decision. Leo had just been so impassive! It had been impossible to read his face or his voice. It was frightening.

Giovanni was begging for a story now, and Clopin pulled him onto his lap. Giovanni smiled up at him, his blue eyes shining. "I want Puppet to tell it," he said.

"All right," said Clopin, reaching for the hand puppet. He slipped his hand inside of it, remembering that Cassandra had owned it for a few years. He remembered the way she'd held it in her palms, staring down at it, telling it her deepest feelings because no one else would talk to her.

He cleared his throat. "Once upon a time, in a far-away land, there lived a beautiful princess and a peasant who loved her very much. The peasant wanted to marry her, but he had to ask her father, the king, for permission. The peasant said, 'your majesty, I love the princess with all my heart and wish to make her my bride.' The king said to him, 'there are four monsters who live in the woods. If you go out and kill them and bring me their hearts, then you may marry the princess.' So, the peasant went out into the woods to look for the four monsters. He found the first monster, and it was very big and smelly, and he killed it and cut its heart out. He went back to the king and gave him the monster's heart, and the king said, 'very good, but you must kill the other three monsters.'"

He looked down at Giovanni. He was growing sleepy, his large blue eyes watching the puppet move as though he was hypnotized. "So the peasant went back into the woods and found the second monster, and it was even bigger and smellier than the first one. He killed it and brought its heart back to the king, but the king said, 'you must kill the other three monsters before you can marry the princess.' So the peasant went into the woods again and found the third monster. It was the biggest, smelliest monster he'd ever seen, but he killed it and brought its heart back to the king. The king said, 'you've done a good job so far, but you must kill the fourth monster. When you do that, you may marry the princess.' The peasant went into the woods one last time and looked for the monster. It took a very long time, but eventually, he found the monster. It was a huge, hideous, smelly beast, and the peasant had a very difficult time killing it because it was so huge. But he succeeded, and he cut its heart out and brought it to the king. The king smiled at him and said, 'since you have killed the four monsters, you may marry the princess.' So the peasant married the princess and they lived happily ever after."

He did not know when exactly Giovanni had fallen asleep, but he lifted him gently and tucked him into his bed. He sat there in the semi-darkness beside him, watching him sleep. Giovanni was so small, so innocent. Clopin looked down at the hand puppet now. It smiled up at him, and he placed it on the pillow beside Giovanni. Giovanni adored Cassandra; she had enough energy to chase after him everywhere, and she would tickle him when she caught him. He would rush to her, tugging on her skirt until she picked him up, balancing him expertly on her hip.

What would he do if Leo refused to let him marry her? If Leo disapproved of the marriage, he would undoubtedly forbid him from seeing Cassandra too. He couldn't very well pack up and leave; Frollo's guards had seen to that. Seeing her day in and day out, knowing that he could never speak to her or touch her would be torture.

He was jolted from his thoughts by a knock on the door. He rose, lit another candle and opened the door. Cassandra's brothers seemed to fill the doorway. They entered the caravan silently and stood, huge and hulking before him. Clopin glanced back at Giovanni; Giovanni's constant running always managed to wear him out. He slept soundly and heavily, and Clopin was glad.

"We want to talk to you," said Damocles, "about Cassandra."

Clopin nodded. "Of course. Please, um…" he looked around frantically. His caravan was small and narrow; there was no room for chairs or stools. The best he could offer the brothers was the floor. "Would – would you like to sit down?"

"No," said Ares.

"Do you love our sister?"

"I do."

"You aren't offering to marry her out of pity, are you?" Damocles stepped closer to him. He wasn't the oldest, but he was the tallest. Clopin remembered watching him torturing one of the men who'd attacked Cassandra; Damocles had cut the man's fingers off one by one, letting them fall to the floor nonchalantly while the man begged for mercy. Now Clopin had to fight the urge to back away from him.

"No," he said, "I love her."

"You don't think she's…damaged goods…do you?"

Clopin shook his head. "No."

The brothers stared at him. The silence was thick, and Clopin could hear his own heart pounding. He wondered if they could hear it too. "All right," said Damocles. He turned towards the door, reaching for the knob. "We'll share this discussion with our father."

Clopin watched them leave, then sank to the floor. He blew out the candle and sat there in the darkness, trying to make his mind stop racing.

"I've made my decision."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Leo seemed almost too jovial, and it puzzled Clopin. "I've decided that you can marry Cassandra."

Clopin could barely believe his ears; he felt as though he would faint. "Thank you," he said, "thank you so much – "

"Ah, you wouldn't be a bad addition to the family," said Leo, clapping him on the back. "And I've spoken with Cassandra on the matter, too, of course. How long will it take to put a dowry together? A week or so?" he continued, though Clopin was barely aware of the actual words coming from his mouth.

"Yes…a week…"

According to Gypsy tradition, a woman's dowry was not provided by her family, but by her husband. It was the man's way of showing her family that he made enough money to care for her properly. Clopin made a decent amount of money; he was able to feed and clothe himself and Giovanni. How much would Leo want, anyway? Clopin was more than willing to pay whatever price he demanded.

"Stop wringing your hands, it makes you look nervous!"

Clopin let his hands fall to his side. "I can't help it. I am nervous."

Enjolras laughed. "I'll bet Cassandra's more nervous than you are," he said. Clopin nodded. He wished that he could go and see her now; it would make him feel better just to hold her hand. He knew it was forbidden, though. It was, after all, bad luck to see the bride before she reached the altar. He stared up at the platform, then started to slowly climb the stairs.

The platform served many purposes in the Court of Miracles. More often than not, it was the place where intruders were hung, but tonight the nooses had been removed and the stiff wooden gallows had been festooned with flowers. Clopin reached the platform, stepping out onto it. He'd been up here dozens of times; out of habit, he almost reached for the switch that released the trap door beneath the empty air where the nooses used to hang. He stared out at the crowd. He'd witnessed weddings before, but he'd never thought in a million years that he'd take part in one.

He glanced down at Enjolras. Enjolras winked at him, and his wife, Rosalie, waved. Clopin stared out at the crowd now, watching it part as Leo escorted Cassandra to the platform. He watched breathlessly as Cassandra climbed the stairs, guided by her father. She wore a white dress and a thin, gauzy veil that obscured her face. He could see her eyes behind it, though, as he reached out and took hold of her hands. Her hands felt smaller, and they trembled. He felt Leo's massive hands close over his and Cassandra's, pressing them together.

"Clopin," he said, his voice stern and booming, "do you swear to love and honor my daughter, Cassandra?"

"I do."

"Cassandra, do you sweat to love and honor your husband, Clopin?"

"Yes, I do."

Leo turned now, releasing their hands, and produced a small two-handled jug. He motioned for Clopin to lift Cassandra's veil, and he did so, his hands shaking. Her long dark hair hung loose around her face; her eyes were full of love, and for a moment, he thought he would cry. Leo handed the jug to Cassandra, and she closed her eyes as she drank. The red wine stained her lips, and she smiled as she handed the jug to him. He drank deeply, draining the jug.

Cassandra reached out, taking hold of the jug's other handle. They raised the jug up, then brought it crashing down on the platform. The sound of the jug smashing was drowned out by the cheering crowd, and Clopin pulled Cassandra into his arms and kissed her. They descended the platform, holding hands, and joined the crowd.

Instruments were produced and the air filled with music. Despite the laughter and cheers surrounding them, Clopin felt as though the world had stopped moving, that only he and Cassandra existed. She smiled at him, twirling in his arms with unnatural grace. He smiled back at her.

"Congratulations!" His reverie was shattered by Enjolras, who seemed to appear at his side with Rosalie. Rosalie was holding Giovanni in her arms, and Cassandra took him from her now. She hugged him, kissing his cheeks and stroking his hair while he laughed at the brightly colored confetti that someone had started throwing.

"Not to worry," said Rosalie, "I'll take him so you two can have a proper wedding night."

Clopin felt Enjolras nudge him. "If you two want to slip away before the feast, I won't tell a soul."

"No," said Clopin, glancing at Cassandra, "thank you, though."

"Well, if you could watch Pierre and Marie for a moment while Rosalie and I slip away – "

"Enjolras! I swear, I may as well be married to the devil!" chided Rosalie. She bent down to lift Marie, who was standing beside her, staring up in wonderment at the crowd. Pierre reluctantly let go of his little sister's hand, watching as she grabbed at the confetti.

"Can I help it if this reminds me of our wedding night?" Enjolras laughed. He put his arm around her, kissing her on the cheek.

Food was served and wine consumed, and the music and dancing continued long into the night. It was well after midnight when Clopin led Cassandra to his caravan, her new home. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her and latching it; it was almost as though she had simply shown up for a reading lesson. Clopin watched as she lit a few candles. Her dark eyes glittered in the candlelight, and he reached for her now. She stared at him, moving slowly and silently as she undid the buttons on the back of her dress. She let it fall to the ground like a white puddle of fabric at her feet, and stepped towards him.

He pulled his own clothing off now, tossing it carelessly to the floor as he led her to the bed. The bed was a narrow one, but Clopin was certain that it could fit two people comfortably. He lay there beside her, kissing her, letting his hands wander along her body. Her skin was soft and smooth, and she whispered his name into the darkness. He pulled her on top of him and entered her slowly; she gasped as he broke the barrier inside of her.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"No, no, I'm fine." She was gasping as she spoke, though. He reached up and touched her face, letting his fingers trail along her cheek. She turned, kissing his fingertips, and began, very slowly, to move. He moved with her, his body quickly falling into a rhythm with hers. He pulled her close to him, kissing her lips, tasting the red wine. She was so soft and warm and beautiful. He kissed her face and neck, making his way down towards her shoulders and breasts.

"I love you," she moaned, her voice thin and breathy, "oh, I love you."

"I love you, too…"

He climaxed, whispering her name into her hair as he did. They lay there, side by side in the semi-darkness, panting. He put his arms around her, pulling her in close to him. He could feel something warm and wet on her thighs as she pressed against him; she'd been a virgin, after all. He kissed her forehead, stroking her hair, ignoring the blood that was probably staining the sheets. It hardly mattered to him.

He pulled the blankets over them. He looked at Cassandra, suddenly realizing that she would be the first thing he saw when he woke. The thought made him smile; she put her arms around him, and he wondered if the same thought had occurred to her as well.


	7. Esmerelda and Phoebus

**1496…**

They would reach Lyon in a few days. They had enough food to last the trip and more than enough money to rent a cheap room once they reached Lyon. He watched as Esmerelda built a small fire and rummaged through the sack of food, pulling out half a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. She seemed paler than he remembered, but she had essentially spent the last thirteen years locked in a house. A few weeks out in the sun and her skin would regain its coppery tone. She looked up at him, smiling.

"What are you thinking?" she asked. She picked up a stick and speared a slice of bread with it. She held it out over the fire, carefully toasting it.

Phoebus shrugged. He was rarely ever tongue-tied, but he found now that he couldn't articulate his feelings. Sitting her with Esmerelda, just watching as she bent over a campfire, kneeling in the dirt, made him feel happier than he'd ever been. "I love you," he said.

Esmerelda placed a thin slice of cheese on the toast and handed it to him. "I love you too," she said. She cut another piece of bread and speared it with the stick. "But what are you really thinking?"

"I'm the luckiest man on earth," he said, taking a bite of the toast. He chewed, watching as she cooked her own toast. "I'm here with you, we're going to get married…"

Esmerelda slid closer to him, nestling against him as she ate her toast. "I've dreamed of this," she said, "I've dreamed that you would come back for me, that you would take me and Katarina, that we'd be happy at last…" She lifted her head from his shoulder to look at him, and he saw tears in her eyes. "I never thought it would really happen. I always thought…"

"Shh…" he rubbed her cheek. Her skin was smooth and warm. "It doesn't matter what you once thought. It did happen."

She nodded. "Yes," she whispered, kissing him, "it finally did."

~xXx~

Katarina did not seem to see Phoebus, or if she did notice him, his presence didn't register with her. Esmerelda glanced at Phoebus. She hoped he wasn't offended by this; his daughter was practically ignoring him. He was smiling, however, leaning on his crutch and watching patiently as Esmerelda and Katarina embraced. Esmerelda closed her eyes, rubbing Katarina's head with her free hand. Her wispy blonde hair was cut short, crudely hacked into a boyish bob, and her hands were dirty. She smelled like the outdoors, like dirt and grass. Esmerelda realized that it was not the scent that usually clung to Katarina; she normally smelled strongly of soap and dust and other things that came with being forced to remain inside. The rich, earthy smell that now clung to her was new and refreshing, and only seemed to remind Esmerelda of their newfound freedom.

"I thought you were dead." Katarina's voice was muffled; it sounded like she was crying. "Everybody said so, and there was even a grave in the cemetery – "

Esmerelda shook her head, stroking Katarina's hair. "Your false-father tried to trick you," she said, "he thought he could catch you if he told everyone I was dead."

"He almost did."

Esmerelda opened her eyes and glanced over at Phoebus. She did not want to think about Claude anymore, let alone talk about him. The nightmare that had been living with him had lasted far too long. It was over now in every sense of the word. Esmerelda smiled at Phoebus and patted Katarina's head. "There's someone you have to meet," she said. She was speaking to the both of them. Katarina lifted her head, staring up at her, bewildered. "You remember I told you about your true father?"

Katarina nodded. "He died before I was born."

"No," said Esmerelda, smiling as she shook her head. "He was clever, and he escaped." She nodded towards Phoebus, and Katarina followed her gaze.

Katarina stepped out of the embrace slowly, wiping her eyes as she continued to stare up at Phoebus. "You were in the circus," she said. "I – you must've thought I was a boy – "

"I remember you," said Phoebus. He moved towards her slowly, as if he was afraid he'd frighten her if he moved too suddenly. Katarina continued to stare up at him, her green eyes wide. "We watched the stars when you couldn't sleep." Katarina nodded eagerly. "My name is Phoebus de Châteaupers."

"You're my father? My true father?"

"Yes."

Katarina looked as though she would start to cry again, but she rushed forward, throwing her arms around Phoebus and nearly knocking him over. He wobbled on his good leg, winding his free arm around her and patting her on the head. Esmerelda watched them. It was the first time in years she'd felt truly content, and she let the feeling engulf her.

"Esmerelda?"

She recognized Rosalie's voice instantly and spun around. Rosalie did not look vastly different; the years had been kind to her. She'd gained a little weight, and it made her hips look fuller. Her thick, dark hair was still pulled back into a neat bun that rested at the back of her neck. Esmerelda could only stare at her. Everything was happening too quickly – being reunited with Phoebus and Katarina, and now Rosalie, her best friend. The last time she'd seen Rosalie, Rosalie had been pregnant. Thirteen years had passed; she must have had the baby. Esmerelda wondered where it was, if it had been a boy or a girl. She wondered where Rosalie's husband, Enjolras was.

"It's Rosalie…"

"Yes, yes, I know," said Esmerelda. "It's been so long." She went to Rosalie and hugged her. "The baby," she said, "how – how was it?"

"I had a boy," said Rosalie. She broke the hug, then turned, calling over her shoulder. "Pierre! Come here and bring your sister!"

The boy and girl who came rushing to Rosalie had about three years between them, perhaps less. The boy (Pierre, they'd named him after Enjolras's younger brother) looked almost exactly like Enjolras. He was holding his younger sister's hand. "These are my children," said Rosalie. "Pierre and Marie."

She wondered who had delivered Rosalie's children; Rosalie herself was a midwife, but it would be impossible to deliver her own babies. Once she'd found out she was pregnant, she'd begun to teach Esmerelda how to deliver a baby. "I want you to help me," she'd said. "I want you to be the one by my side." Claude had taken her while Rosalie was still pregnant. Esmerelda stared at Pierre and Marie, fighting back tears. She was supposed to bring them into the world. She was supposed to be the one to stand by Rosalie's side and catch the baby when it came out.

Rosalie seemed to sense her sorrow, and she turned to her children. "Why don't you go and get the food from the wagon?" she said, "we'll be having a feast tonight." Pierre nodded wordlessly, then he and his sister turned and left, still holding hands. "I'm sorry," said Rosalie after they had gone. "I didn't mean – "

"No," said Esmerelda, "don't be sorry. They're beautiful. Where's Enjolras?"

"He died," said Rosalie, her voice quiet, "about ten years ago."

"Oh! I'm so sorry."

Rosalie shook her head. "It's fine."

"Pierre looks just like him."

"I know."

The world had changed so vastly in the past thirteen years. She should not have been surprised. She just wasn't expecting such a huge difference; Rosalie had had two children, Enjolras was dead. Esmerelda suddenly felt dizzy. She glanced back over her shoulder at Katarina and Phoebus. Katarina was talking about something, moving her hands animatedly as she spoke. Phoebus watched her, his blue eyes wide. Esmerelda wondered what he felt. Did he feel as confused as she did?

~xXx~

Katarina had always known that, technically speaking, she was a bastard child. Her parents had never been married. Still, the knowledge that they would be getting married that very evening made her feel strange. She watched her mother and father talking and holding hands; it felt as though she'd stepped backwards in time. It felt like she was watching the way they had been before she'd been born. Her parents were surrounded by a thick knot of people, all of them congratulating them and helping them plan the wedding. It must have been what life was like before the Judge had swooped in and abducted her mother. It must have been what life was like back when it was still good.

"That man's your father?" asked Giovanni. He was pointing at Phoebus de Châteaupers. "The man with only one leg?"

Katarina nodded. "Yes," she said. Phoebus had his arm around her mother's waist, his hand planted firmly against the small of her back. It suddenly occurred to her that her name wasn't Katarina Phoebus anymore. She was Katarina de Châteaupers now. She supposed that she had always been Katarina de Châteaupers, but had never really known it.

"Hm." Giovanni continued to stare at Phoebus, his head tilted to the side. "He's not how I imagined him."

Katarina had always been told that her true father had been a soldier, and had always envisioned him wielding a sword and wearing armor. She'd once owned a book about the saints. Each chapter came with an illustration of the saint it focused on; she had always associated her father with the image of St. George battling the dragon. The drawing had depicted a muscular man with blonde hair and a halo, and, naïvely, she'd imagined that her father might look the same. She was thoroughly surprised to find a thin man with tangled blonde hair who was missing his left leg.

"How did you imagine him?" she asked.

Giovanni shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I didn't think he'd be crippled."

"Well, he wasn't when he met my mother," said Katarina defensively. "He lost his leg when he had to fight in the war."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult him."

Katarina shook her head and turned to Giovanni. He did look genuinely upset, and he hadn't meant to offend anyone. "It's fine," she said, smiling at him. She glanced down at her dress. She would have to change into something else; her clothes were filthy. She didn't have much in the way of clothing. She'd had to leave most of her dresses behind. She doubted that she could borrow anything from Marie. It probably wouldn't fit. She supposed that she could change back into the shirt and trousers while she washed her dress.

"I should get cleaned up," she said. "I can't go to a wedding like this."

Giovanni was looking down at his hands now. They were as dirty as hers.

~xXx~

"That dress won't be dry in time for the wedding."

Katarina sighed. "It was dirty," she said, looking at Rosalie. Rosalie glanced at the dress again. Katarina had managed to succeed in scrubbing most of the grass stains off of it. Still, the wedding was in a few hours, and the dress would still be damp. Katarina had changed back into the shirt and trousers; she could not show up at her parents' wedding dressed as a boy, though.

"Come on," said Rosalie, "I'll find you something to wear." Katarina nodded and followed her.

Rosalie had set up a tent when she'd reached Lyon and had begun constructing a house immediately. The house was not yet completed; she hoped that it would be done by tomorrow evening. The tent was flimsy and cold. She was surprised to find Clopin and Phoebus near the tent. Phoebus was seated on a stool, holding a cracked mirror in one hand and shaving.

"I know you love those trousers, but you can't wear them to a wedding," said Clopin, laughing.

"My dress was dirty," said Katarina. Rosalie noticed that she was blushing. She was playing with her hair, winding an errant lock around her finger.

"Oh, it doesn't matter what she wears," said Phoebus. He wiped his face on a scrap of cloth and beckoned to Katarina. She approached him quickly. Phoebus smiled at her, and there was something sad in his expression. "God, you have your mother's eyes."

Katarina shrugged. "Everyone says so."

Rosalie went into the tent and pulled out one of the trunks that contained Marie's clothes. It was strange to see Katarina with Phoebus. They barely knew each other. They deserved their privacy. She began digging through the clothing, hoping to find something that would fit Katarina. Katarina was much taller than Marie. Rosalie pulled out a yellow dress and held it up. The dress was baggy on Marie; perhaps it would fit Katarina. She wished that she could do something with Katarina's hair. It had been cut quickly and was uneven. Maybe putting flowers in her hair would hide its raggedness. She had seen Marie picking flowers earlier; maybe Marie and Katarina could go and get some flowers together.

"Katarina," she called, "come here, I think this will fit you."

Katarina came into the tent, and Rosalie handed her the dress. Katarina changed quickly, and Rosalie helped her with the buttons. The dress was tight on her, but it covered what needed to be covered and was clean. The sleeves were long enough, as was the skirt. "I think I saw Marie picking flowers earlier," said Rosalie, "why don't you go find her? Maybe she can put flowers in your hair."

"All right."

Katarina turned and left the tent. Rosalie could hear Clopin and Phoebus telling her how pretty she looked, and Rosalie smiled. She picked up the shirt and trousers and folded them, placing them into the trunk.

~xXx~

"Do you, Esmerelda, swear to love and honor your husband, Phoebus?"

It bothered him that she was crying. It would not be the first time a bride had been so overcome with emotion, but crying seemed far too sad an act for this occasion. Esmerelda was happy. She was finally happy. She was gripping Phoebus's hands and staring at him, and her beautiful green eyes were overflowing with tears. Esmerelda nodded. "I do."

Clopin turned to Phoebus now. "Do you, Phoebus, swear to love and honor your wife, Esmerelda?"

"I do." He spoke quickly and without hesitation. Clopin glanced at Katarina and nodded to her. She came forward, holding the little glass cup that her parents would drink from. She was wearing a yellow dress that did not fit her very well. It was a size too small, and it made her look taller and thinner than she usually did. She handed the cup to her mother, and Esmerelda's hands shook as she took the glass from her. She brought the cup to her face, closing her eyes and smelling the wine. She drank, then handed the cup to Phoebus.

He drank deeply, then threw the empty cup to the ground. It broke, and Phoebus crushed the remnants of it with his crutch. He leaned in and kissed Esmerelda, placing his free hand on her waist and drawing her close to him. "I love you," he whispered, "I love you so much, Esmerelda."

"Phoebus…I love you, too."

They embraced, oblivious to what was happening around them. The tears of joy continued to stream from Esmerelda's eyes, rolling down her cheeks and onto Phoebus's shoulder as he hugged her. She beckoned to Katarina. Katarina went to her parents slowly, as if she was afraid of ruining their moment. Esmerelda and Phoebus pulled her into the embrace. It was like looking at a puzzle that had finally been completed. All of the pieces – mother, father, and daughter – were there, and they all fit together perfectly.

Clopin felt Cassandra squeezing his hand, and he turned to her. She was holding the baby in her arms, and he took him from her. Jacques-Clopin looked at him and reached for his face; he kissed his son's hand, and he could feel his daughters at his side, hugging him. He suddenly found himself wishing for an extra set of arms to hold them with.

~xXx~

Esmerelda – his Esmerelda, his and his alone – moaned his name and kissed him. She had asked him not to say her name, and he honored that wish. He closed his eyes and kissed her back. Lying there beneath her, feeling her body against his, was nothing short of bliss. He groaned, kissing her neck and shoulders. "I love you," he said, "oh, I love you…"

She said his name again. He loved the way she said it, stretching out the syllables, lengthening it. She shuddered and took his hands, guiding them to her breasts. Her skin was still smooth and soft, even after all this time. It drove him wild. For once, the remnants of his left leg did not bother him. For once, pain did not shoot through his thigh and into his hip. For once, there was no pain. No discomfort. There was only love and joy and the warmth of Esmerelda's body against his.

He held her when it had ended. He held her and stroked her hair and kissed her. He remembered the first time he'd ever made love to her; it had been quick and passionate, and he'd been dizzy from the blood loss and the wound in his back. She'd lain beneath him, shuddering and gasping and kissing him. He had spent the last thirteen years dreaming of that moment, reliving every touch and kiss. He would never have to daydream and wish again. Esmerelda was at his side. She would always be at his side. The knowledge that nothing could take her from him was thrilling, and he kissed her lips.

"I love you more than anything," he said.


	8. Marie and Dmitri, Part I

**1505**

"Hello, are you needing help with that?"

The girl did not reply, or even acknowledge him. She was standing before the well, her back to him, struggling to turn the crank that would bring the bucket back up. She was tugging at it with both hands, groaning and making irritated hissing sounds through her teeth. Dmitri glanced over his shoulder, back at Piotr. Piotr had told him to hurry with the water, but thankfully he was distracted. He was with Vladimir and the others; they were busy unhitching the horses and mules from the caravans.

Dmitri looked back at the girl. She was roughly his own age, maybe a year or so younger, and she was wearing a dark blue dress. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid; she had woven little yellow flowers into it. "Are you needing help?" he asked, and when she did not reply, he reached out and touched her shoulder.

She spun around, startled, her hair flying like a whip and nearly hitting him in the face. It was as though she hadn't even known he was behind her. "Are you needing help?" he asked again, pointing to the crank. She nodded and stepped aside. The crank was old and rusty, and the bucket was heavy with water. Dmitri had to use most of his strength to pull the bucket up. He managed to pull it out of the well without spilling any of the water, and he handed it to her. She smiled and nodded, taking the handle with both hands.

"What is being your name?" he asked. Despite months of practice, his French was still poor; he now wondered if she could even understand him with his accent. The farmers and peasants they'd passed on the road to Lyon had had a great deal of difficulty understanding him, often asking him to repeat himself, their heads tilted in confusion.

The girl only shook her head. She shifted the bucket, gripping it and balancing it on her hip, and pointed to her mouth with her free hand. She shook her head, but did not speak. He could only stare at her, feeling stupid. The girl couldn't talk. Maybe she couldn't hear either; maybe that was why she hadn't responded when he'd asked if she'd needed help. "You are not to talking?" he asked. She shook her head again, this time pointing to her ear. "Oh." He tapped his own ear now. "You are not…" he wracked his brain, struggling to think of the right word. "Listening? You are not listening?"

Dmitri wasn't sure if he'd used the right word, but the girl was nodding anyway. She couldn't hear him, and therefore couldn't talk either. There had to be some way to figure out what her name was. Maybe he could guess it. The French gave their girls strange names, though, and he couldn't think of any. "Dmitri!" he cringed at the sound of Piotr's voice. "Hurry with that water!"

"I'm coming, Piotr!" He glanced at the girl, smiling at her, "I am in hurry," he said. "I will to guess your name being later."

She nodded and stepped aside, granting him access to the well. He lowered his bucket and filled it as quickly as he could. Piotr was already in a foul mood; if he didn't hurry, it would only get worse. Dmitri hefted the bucket, rushing back to Piotr and the caravan with it. "Talk to the girl later," said Piotr, grabbing the bucket from him. "Go help Anja with the cooking."

"Yes, Piotr."

Piotr's wife, Anja, was pregnant with their first child and, while Dmitri secretly worried that Piotr would throw him out after the baby was born, he was happy for them. The caravan was only so big, and though they were brothers, Piotr was under no obligation to continue caring for Dmitri. Dmitri was twenty-one, after all; he was certainly old enough to live on his own. Though he didn't particularly like living with Piotr and Anja, he had nowhere else to go, and he was grateful to them.

"Go fetch the vegetables, Dmitri," said Anja. She was sitting on the steps of the caravan, rubbing her stomach. "They're in the caravan."

Dmitri went into the caravan. He knew that the vegetables would be scarce before opening the sack of food, and he was disappointed to find that all they had left were a few carrots and potatoes. He groaned. He was starving, but it was Piotr's caravan, and these were Piotr's vegetables. The majority of the food would go to him and Anja, and Dmitri would have to be content with scraps. He dug through the other sacks, finding a stale loaf of bread and another potato. It was all they had, and it would have to do until tomorrow.

~xXx~

"Please to say again. I am not understanding you. Why I cannot work for you?"

The farmer glared at him, pointing to his left hand. "I don't hire thieves," he said, spitting the words out.

Dmitri shook his head. "No, I am not being thief," he said. He held up his left hand; the farmer had been pointing at his missing fingers. "It was being accident many years ago – "

"I don't hire thieves," said the farmer, "go look somewhere else."

He turned and left, heading back into his field. Dmitri watched him go. This was the fourth man to turn him away. He stared down at his hand. In some places, thieves lost their fingers as punishment. It was a way of ensuring they wouldn't steal again. It was also a way of branding them. Everyone he had asked for work had demanded to see his hands, and had immediately turned him away because he was missing two fingers from his left hand. No one would listen when he tried to tell them that he'd lost the fingers in an accident.

Dmitri sighed. He walked towards the next house, trying to convince himself that he would not be turned away this time. There was no response when he knocked on the door, but he heard what sounded like giggling from the back of the house, and he rounded it, curious. The girl – the deaf one with the flowers in her hair – was sitting on the ground. She was holding a red-headed child in her lap; two other children were playing, chasing each other in a circle.

He went to the girl, tapping her shoulder. She turned her head and smiled at him. She got to her feet, balancing the baby on her hip the same way she'd balanced the bucket. "Hello," he said. She nodded to him. He glanced over at the two children and found himself wondering if they were hers. They certainly didn't look like her. "These are being your babies?" he asked.

She shook her head. He felt relieved, though he couldn't pinpoint why. The children rushed to the girl now, tugging on her skirt. She bent, kneeling before them. They were both chattering, babbling and talking far too quickly for him to understand. The girl pointed at her mouth, tapping her finger against her chin. The older child, the little boy, pointed to his own mouth now, mimicking her. "We want to pick flowers," he said loudly.

The girl nodded and rose. The children began to scamper away from the house, heading towards the woods. The girl glanced at him, then nodded for him to accompany her. He followed. Her hair was once again pulled back into a braid, but she'd stuck little pink flowers in it today. He was close enough to smell their quickly-fading perfume, and he inhaled deeply, savoring its sweetness.

The children had stopped in front of the woods, and Dmitri noticed a large patch of wild flowers. The children were looking up at the girl, waiting for her. It occurred to him that they might know what her name was. "Excuse to me," he said, addressing the older one. He pointed at the girl now, "what is her name being?"

"Marie."

The girl was nodding in agreement. She pointed at him now, and he felt embarrassed; he'd been struggling to find a way to figure out her name, but he'd never bothered telling her his. "I am Dmitri," he said. She was smiling as she sat down, patting the ground beside her. He sat and watched as she picked flowers with the children. Her fingers moved quickly, shaping the flowers into little circles. She placed the circles on the children's heads like little multi-colored halos. The children quickly resumed their earlier game and began to chase each other once more.

Marie turned to him. She shifted the baby on her lap, and pointed to his left hand. He held it up, letting her look at it. She stared at the place where his fingers used to be; the cut had been a clean one, the fingers chopped off at the knuckle. There were no nubs or stumps where they had once been. She pointed at the coin pouch he kept tied to his belt, then at his hand again. She moved her own hand now, making a chopping motion with it. She wanted to know if he was a thief, if he'd lost his fingers because he had been caught stealing. There was something thoroughly depressing about her silent question, and he found himself glaring at her.

"I am not thief," he said, pointing at himself as if to emphasize it. "It was accident." She stared at him, then nodded at his hand. "In Russia, my brother and I were to farming." He could see the gardening tool in his mind's eye, but he could not think of what it was called. He saw the long, curved blade swing through the air, saw it collide with his hand, saw his fingers flying, saw blood spurting. He mimed holding the instrument and made a chopping motion. "It was…I'm not knowing how to call it…Piotr was not seeing me, and it was accident." He sighed. "No one is to believing it was accident. Everyone is thinking I am thief."

She nodded as if she understood him. She looked around, and pointed. He followed her finger; she was pointing back towards the Gypsy camps, at the people who were milling around. She tapped her ear now, then pointed at the people again. She was trying to tell him something about the people and her own deafness. She pointed to her forehead now, making a funny face; she stuck her tongue out and crossed her eyes like a simpleton. "The people…" he frowned, trying to come up with the correct words. "The people are thinking you are being…stupid because you are not listening?" He hoped that he had understood her properly. He didn't want to offend her.

She nodded eagerly. He had understood her. He felt proud of himself, though he couldn't really say why. He supposed that he'd surprised himself, that he hadn't expected to be able to interpret her. He certainly hadn't thought that she was stupid. On the contrary, he'd been more concerned with himself; he'd feared that his lack of French would hinder him. It didn't impact him at all, though. Maybe he could talk to her without actually speaking. Maybe he could learn to speak with his hands the way she did. He pointed at her now, tapping her forehead. He smiled and nodded; you are smart, he thought. He pointed to the people by the camps now, and made the same simpleton's face that she had. They are the stupid ones, not you, he thought.

She laughed. It startled him. Her smile seemed to stretch, growing wider, and a high-pitched giggling sound escaped her throat. She looked strange when she laughed, but the fact that he'd made her happy, that he had been the one to make her laugh…well, that was nice. The fact that she'd understood him, the fact that he could talk with her using his hands, made him proud.

~xXx~

He did not like begging, but he had run out of other options. No one would let him work because of his missing fingers, and Piotr was demanding that he pay his own way. "You are not helpless, Dmitri," he said, "earn your keep or you sleep outside."

The summer's blistering heat only occurred during the day. It grew chilly at night, downright cold on occasion, and Dmitri had no desire to sleep outside anyway. Begging was a last resort, and he only hoped that Marie wouldn't see him. There was something shameful in begging, in binding his left leg so that it looked as though he'd lost it, in pretending to be crippled. She'd think less of him if she saw him. She'd see that he was only masquerading, fooling everyone else into thinking he was a cripple to gain their sympathy and their coins, and she'd think he was dishonest. She'd think that he had lied to her about losing his fingers.

The wound was an old one, and it rarely, if ever, bothered him. Occasionally it felt as though he still had fingers. Sometimes he would touch things and would think he could feel whatever surface he'd come into contact with. The phantom sensation frightened him. It was strange and confusing; the fingers were gone, how on earth could they still feel anything?

"Thank you, madam, God bless you." He nodded to the old woman who'd put a coin in his cup. He supposed that the one good thing about begging was that no one looked at his left hand. He was able to keep the missing fingers hidden behind the crutch he supported himself with. "Charity please," he called, shaking the cup to make the coins rattle, "charity for a crippled orphan, please."

His heart nearly stopped when he saw Pierre approaching him. Pierre was Marie's older brother, and Dmitri could sense that Pierre didn't like him. His eyes were large and dark, like Marie's, but unlike her eyes, they looked at him with judgment and hate. He tried being polite, he had never insulted Pierre or done anything to anger him. He supposed that Pierre just cared about his younger sister. Dmitri could understand that; Marie was young and pretty, and Pierre was smart enough to know that boys would be attracted to her.

Pierre dropped a coin into the cup. "Thank you, sir," said Dmitri, smiling gratefully, "God bless you."

"I know you aren't really crippled," said Pierre, his voice an angry hiss. He glanced at his left hand. "What else are you lying about?"

"Please, Pierre, I am not lying. I am not thief." Though he feared that Pierre would expose him as a fraud, though he feared that he'd tell Marie, he felt anger building up within him. After all, Pierre was a thief. He'd been caught and was missing the little finger on his left hand, and he still stole. Dmitri had seen him weaving through crowds, had watched his hands; though Pierre's hands were small, they moved quickly and gracefully. He snatched purses with an unnatural ease that was frightening. How on earth could Pierre judge him? Pierre was anything but pure!

"Please, you cannot to tell Marie."

"She has a right to know that you're a liar," said Pierre.

"No! Please…" Dmitri wracked his brain. There had to be some way he could stop Pierre from telling. "You cannot tell, because then I will tell what I was seeing."

Pierre stared at him, looking confused and stunned at the same time. "What?"

Dmitri nodded. "I saw you," he said. He could care less about Pierre and what he did, but he doubted that Pierre would want his little sister to know he'd been to a brothel. Dmitri bit his lip, struggling to think of the French word for 'brothel.' "I saw you at _бордель_…the place with the whores in it…"

Pierre rolled his eyes. "A brothel," he said. "It's called a brothel."

"_Da_," said Dmitri, "and I saw you go inside with a whore. If you tell Marie that I am liar, I will tell her that you are with whore."

Pierre glared at him. "Fine," he said. "But I don't want you near my sister."

"But I am liking Marie. I am respecting to her, I promise. She being is my friend."

Pierre stared at him as though he was trying to read his mind. Dmitri noticed the knife glinting in Pierre's belt. He did not carry a knife; he'd never needed one, and besides, no one gave to a beggar with a blade in his belt. Despite the crowded street, despite the fact that if Pierre did hurt him, he'd never escape, Dmitri had to suppress a shudder. "If you ever do anything to hurt her, if you ever make her cry, I will kill you," said Pierre finally. "Do you understand me?"

Dmitri nodded. "Yes."

Pierre turned and left, stalking back into the crowd. Dmitri watched him go, waiting until he was out of sight to resume begging. He shifted. His left leg was starting to ache; it was bent at the knee, his calf pressed flat against the back of his thigh. The cloth he'd used to bind it in place was beginning to itch. He stared down at the cup full of coins and sighed. "Charity please," he said, "charity for a crippled orphan, please."

~xXx~

"Is surprise," he said, "you will like, I promise."

Marie was smiling at him, but he could see the questions in her eyes. She wanted to know what he wanted to show her and why it was in the woods. They were nearly there, though, and he knew that she'd love it. Dmitri had been more than surprised when he'd found the field of flowers. He'd been momentarily dazzled by their brightness and their sheer numbers. The field was average in size, relatively small, but it was filled with wildflowers. They grew in large, vibrant clumps. At first he'd wanted to pick a bouquet for Marie, but there had just been too many beautiful flowers, and besides, if he picked them, they would only wither and die. It was much nicer to see them growing in the field, alive. As long as they remained firmly rooted in the ground, they wouldn't wither away.

"We are almost there," he said.

They emerged from the thicket and stood at the edge of the field, and he looked at Marie. She was staring at the field, her eyes wide. Her mouth had fallen open, but she didn't seem to notice. Dmitri watched her large brown eyes darting around, taking in the flowers. He wondered if she saw them differently than he did. Were they brighter, more colorful? He'd heard that the blind had excellent hearing; did the deaf have excellent vision?

She turned to him now. She had finally closed her mouth. "I could not just pick one," he said, motioning to the flowers. "So they are all for you."

She stepped towards him, and he suddenly realized that he'd never been this close to her before. She touched his face now, trailing her fingers along his cheek. He took hold of her hand, pressing it to his face. Her fingers were thin, the tips calloused. He put his free hand on her waist without thinking; he could feel the way her body curved beneath the soft blue fabric of her dress. The tingling sensation returned to the place where his fingers used to be, and for a brief instant, it felt as though he'd never lost them. For one quick moment, his phantom fingers could feel the softness of her dress. She was staring at his mouth as if waiting for him to speak, but he found that he had nothing to say.

He leaned closer to her, letting his lips brush against hers. He closed his eyes. Her lips were warm and soft, and she responded eagerly, pressing them against his. He felt her hand on his hip, felt her body pressed against his. He could smell the flowers; their thick, sweet scent hung in the air like an invisible curtain.

She broke the kiss, and he opened his eyes. He stared at her, panting, gasping for breath. He kissed her again, kissing her face and neck now. She made a thin, moaning sound, and he felt her hand slide away from his hip. Her hand was between his legs now, gently groping at him through his trousers. His own hands moved as if on their own, and she let him undo the buttons on her blouse. Her breasts were soft and round, and she moaned again when he kissed them.

His knees seemed to buckle, and the next thing he knew they were both sitting on the ground. Marie was tugging at her skirt, pulling it up, exposing her slender legs. Dmitri found himself undoing his belt and shoving her gently onto her back. He had been intimate with girls before, but had never gone this far with any of them. He knew what to do, though; he'd shared a one-room caravan with Piotr and Anja long enough. He'd woken up countless times to their moaning, had seen the way they'd moved beneath the blankets. Marie was kissing him as she opened her legs, and he entered her.

She was warm and wet and soft, so soft, and she wrapped her arms around his waist as she moved with him. He kissed her. He loved her, oh God, he loved her so much. Lying here with her, making love to her, in the field of flowers – it was how Eden must have been. This was Heaven, this was Paradise; lying here with Marie, making love to her, surrounded by flowers. He felt her fingers digging into his back, felt her shudder, and he groaned her name even though she couldn't hear him. She was kissing his face and neck, moaning softly in to his shoulder, and it drove him wild. He felt his climax approaching, and somewhere inside of him, he heard a voice screaming at him; _not inside of her_, the voice shouted, _you'll get her pregnant_. He managed to withdraw from her, letting his seed spill onto the ground.

They stared at each other, and Dmitri sat up, climbing off of Marie. He was covered in blood, and this horrified him. Had he hurt her? Had she been moaning in pain? Had she been trying to make him stop? Had he been too blinded by his own pleasure to realize that he was hurting her? Oh God, what had he done? Had he raped her without knowing it? Her brother would kill him. "Marie," he said, "Marie – are you hurting?"

She shook her head, puzzled at his concern. She had pulled a handkerchief out of one of her pockets and was calmly wiping the blood off of her thighs. She smoothed her skirt, then began to move her hands. She was a virgin, she told him, all virgins bled. He stared at her in disbelief. He supposed that he wasn't surprised to find that she was a virgin, but that virgins bled. It was normal, she was saying, nothing to worry about.

He pulled his pants up. "I did not mean to hurt you," he said, "I would never hurt you."

She shook her head. He didn't hurt her, she said, she liked it. Virgins have walls inside of them, she continued, and those walls are broken by the first man to enter. He had simply broken her wall. He hadn't hurt her at all. She embraced him now, kissing his cheek and smiling up at him. He held her. He was somewhat relieved; at least he hadn't hurt her. She took his hand now and placed it over her heart. He could feel its quick, steady rhythm. She squeezed his hand.

"I love you," he said, and she smiled at him.


	9. Marie and Dmitri, Part II

STILL 1505…

Being in love was unlike anything Marie had ever experienced. It was ecstasy, it was bliss, pure and unadulterated. Being with Dmitri – kissing him, holding him, touching him, even just looking at him – filled her with a joy she wanted to last forever. She sat with him in the field of flowers; it was theirs, their own secret place. He held her, and she pressed her cheek against his chest. She felt his heart beating, felt his hand rubbing her back, and she loved him. Oh God, she loved him so much.

She did not feel guilty for being with Dmitri. She knew deep down that she should, that it was wrong to make love out of wedlock. She knew that she'd promised Heracles and Quasimodo that she wouldn't, and she knew that she should feel guilty for breaking that promise. Dmitri certainly did. "I should not," he always said, "we are not married, I should not…" but he did anyway. He held her and entered her, and they made love in the field like animals. She loved him far too much to care about propriety.

Marie wondered if it was the lack of propriety that made it so enticing. She wondered if it would be the same if she and Dmitri were married. Would his touch lose its magic? Would he cease to thrill her in the confines of a wedding bed? She loved him, she loved him so much, and she supposed that they should get married. After all, that was what people did when they were in love. They married. What would her mother say, though? What would Pierre say?

Pierre would be furious if he knew what she and Dmitri were doing. He treated her like she was still a child, and this irritated her to no end. She hated the fact that he saw her as helpless. I'm not a child, she told him. I don't need you like I used to. She knew that this hurt him, that it made him feel useless, but it was the truth.

"You're my sister," said Pierre. "It's my job to protect you."

She sighed. There was nothing to protect her from. There was no imminent danger, no threat to her. Why, she asked him, why do you need to protect me?

"I don't want anything to happen to you," said Pierre, "I don't want you to get hurt." He put his hand on her shoulder. She could feel his thumb and three remaining fingers. He had been caught picking a man's pocket, and had lost his little finger as punishment. Marie remembered the way she and Pierre had stolen together in Paris. She remembered their old routine; she would approach their marks, hands outstretched, begging for coins, while Pierre crept up behind them and cut their purses. She wondered if it was her fault he'd been caught. She had stopped helping him steal when they had reached Lyon; if she hadn't, would he still have his finger or would she be missing one as well?

I'm not little anymore, she told him, I won't get hurt. I'm not stupid.

"It isn't you, Marie." He was talking about Dmitri, and she glared at him. Pierre did nothing to hide his dislike for Dmitri, and it infuriated Marie. "Dmitri is a thief."

She shoved his hand off of her shoulder, slapping it harder than she'd intended to. You are a thief, she told him, grabbing his wrist and holding his hand up, pointing to the missing finger.

"That's different." Pierre managed to pull out of her grasp. He rolled his eyes. "He is dishonest. He pretends to be a cripple and begs for money." Marie only glared at him. She didn't care what Dmitri did to earn money. Besides, Pierre was probably lying to her, trying to get her to stop loving Dmitri so much. If he only knew the half of it; he'd probably explode if she told him the truth, that she and Dmitri had made love. She was half-tempted to, but she realized that Pierre would only take his anger out on Dmitri. He would accuse Dmitri of soiling her honor and probably try to kill him.

Marie shook her head and turned away from him. She did not want to talk to him anymore. She felt his hand on her shoulder, knew that he wanted her to turn around and face him, but she brushed his hand away. Pierre had never been in love before. He had no idea what she was feeling, and she wouldn't let him ruin it.

~xXx~

The vomiting was accompanied by fever and headaches, and she didn't think anything of it. Despite the summer's heat, she felt cold and her skin was clammy; her mother was more worried about her than ever. She tried telling her not to worry so much. After all, she'd gotten sick before. She wasn't a child, and she could take care of herself. The illness passed relatively quickly, though it felt as though she'd spent an eternity in bed coughing and shivering. Any moment that passed without Dmitri seemed eternal and boring. She missed him. She missed holding his hand, talking to him, she missed the way he smiled at her.

The fever died down and the headaches vanished, but the nausea only grew worse. It woke her every morning, practically attacking her. She found herself outside each morning as the sun rose, bent over and vomiting. The sickness vanished by noon and was usually forgotten until the next morning, when it started all over again like a cycle.

Marie knew that such illness often accompanied pregnancy. Her mother was a midwife; she knew all the symptoms of pregnancy. As much as she did not want to believe that she was pregnant, she knew deep down that it was possible. She and Dmitri had been making love; he did not always remember to pull out of her before climaxing. Sometimes he did spill his seed inside of her. Her bloody curse was late, and it would not come despite her prayers. Her clothing suddenly felt too tight. The fabric of her blouses seemed to stretch and strain, and her hips felt wider. Skirts that had always hung loosely on her were suddenly too tight.

She knew that she could not tell her mother or Pierre. Pierre would be more than furious, and he would undoubtedly kill Dmitri. Marie was not sure of how her mother would react. She'd be upset, yes, disappointed, but would she be angry as well? Would she scold her? Her mother seemed distracted and distant; she'd been getting letters from Heracles, and though she couldn't read them, she would hold them and stare at them dreamily. It occurred to Marie that her mother might be in love, and under a different circumstance it would have made her happy. Ever since moving to Lyon, her mother had been frazzled and prone to panic, easily frightened and too wary. Marie wondered if something had happened while she, Pierre, and Katarina had been lost in the woods. She wondered if her mother was keeping a secret from her.

Or perhaps she'd been homesick for Paris. Perhaps she'd been upset about leaving the Court of Miracles. Regardless, something in Heracles's letters was pleasing her mother, making her calmer and happier. Telling her about the baby would only ruin her happiness, and Marie didn't want that. Would it be possible to hide the baby? For how long? Maybe she wasn't really pregnant. Maybe her body was playing a trick on her. She couldn't really deny it, though, as much as she wanted to.

She would have to tell Dmitri, and this frightened her. How would she bring it up? What would his reaction be? What if he didn't really love her? What if he wanted nothing to do with her or the baby? These thoughts terrified her. She loved him so much; she was certain she'd die without him. If he didn't love her back, if he didn't want anything to do with her or the baby, what would she do? How could she care for the baby on her own? She didn't make very much money. What if she had to start stealing again? And what if she was caught? The possibilities were frightening, and though she didn't want to think about them, they consumed her. She lay awake, staring into the darkness, and the thoughts fell upon her like savage beasts.

She would have to tell her mother. Her mother would be upset, of course, but she'd know what to do. Even if her mother was upset, even if she was angry, she would help her. Pierre would find out eventually, and it would be best if she was the one who told him. She could calm him down, make sure he didn't lose his temper or hurt Dmitri. She would find a way to tell Dmitri later. First she would tell her mother and brother.

Marie was more than surprised to find her mother on top of Heracles, straddling him. Her blouse was open, and Heracles was touching her. They were kissing. Marie saw Pierre's mouth move, but it moved too fast for her to properly understand him. He sprang forward, kicking Heracles violently in the shoulder. Marie watched as her mother and Heracles scrambled up; her mother was holding her blouse together and telling Pierre to stop it. Marie stepped back, wishing she'd never seen her mother and Heracles. She couldn't tell her mother that she was pregnant now. She couldn't. She felt tears stinging at her eyes, and she turned and fled, racing towards the woods. She suddenly wanted to be in the field of flowers, the sweet, secret place that she shared with Dmitri.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned around. Heracles was staring down at her, resting his hand on her shoulder. "Marie, I'm sorry you saw that," he said, "but…your mother and I…well…" Marie shook her head. That wasn't it. That wasn't it at all. "What's wrong, then?" Heracles's concern seemed so genuine, and it only made her feel more helpless. What could she do about the baby inside of her if she couldn't find the strength to tell her own mother? She let Heracles hold her, and she pressed her face into his shoulder while she cried. He touched her chin, tipping her head upwards so that she could see his face. "Marie," he said slowly, "Tell me what's wrong. I will make it right. Tell me."

Perhaps she could tell Heracles. Perhaps he would know what to do. Perhaps he could help her. She pointed to her belly. "Are you hurt?" She shook her head and bit her lip. She'd come this far. She had to tell him now. She took a deep breath and made the hand motions that meant 'pregnant.' Heracles stared at her, and she saw the shock in his eyes. "Oh God…you're pregnant?"

He was shocked, he was disgusted, he was disappointed with her. He probably thought she was promiscuous, that she'd been with hundreds of boys. The thought made her cry again, and she pressed her hands over her face. If this was what Heracles thought, what would her mother think? What would she say? How would she react? She felt Heracles's hands on her wrists, pulling her own hands down away from her eyes. She lowered her face, and he slid his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head up so that she had to look at him. "Who is the father?" he asked.

It did not occur to her that he wouldn't know the hand-symbol she'd made up that meant 'Dmitri,' and he looked confused when she made it. "Is – is it that Russian boy? The one missing two fingers?" She nodded, holding up her left hand, mimicking Dmitri's hand. Heracles sighed, "where is he?"

For a brief instant, she thought that Heracles meant to hurt Dmitri, but she saw the concern and sincerity in his eyes. Did he want to help her tell Dmitri? She wasn't sure how Dmitri would react. What if he got angry at her? What if he refused to believe her? Heracles repeated his question, and Marie could see that he wanted to help her. Maybe he could tell Dmitri for her. Maybe he could make Dmitri understand. She let Heracles take her by the hand and she led him into the Russian Gypsies' camp, heading towards the caravan that Dmitri shared with his older brother.

Dmitri and Piotr were outside of the caravan. It looked as though they were arguing about something, and though she could see their lips moving, she couldn't understand them. Dmitri saw her coming and pointed at her, turning to his brother. Marie swallowed, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. Had they been talking about her? Did Dmitri somehow know that she was pregnant? She looked at Heracles. She couldn't tell Dmitri, she just couldn't. Heracles seemed to sense this, and he patted her shoulder reassuringly. He approached Dmitri and said something. Dmitri seemed to ignore him, though, and approached her.

"Marie, what is wrong?" he asked. She suddenly realized that she probably looked disheveled. She could not hide behind her hands and pretend that he wasn't there. She would have to tell him. She took a deep breath. I'm pregnant, she told him, you are the father. Dmitri only stared at her, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. Marie took his hand and placed it on her stomach. He stared at it as though he expected to feel the baby kicking.

"You…you are to be having baby?" he said, "it – it is being my baby?" Marie nodded. Dmitri suddenly turned away from her, letting his hand slide off of her stomach. Marie could not see his face, but he charged at his older brother, knocking him over. Marie stepped back, terrified; Piotr was bigger than Dmitri and stronger, too. Dmitri struck Piotr, his fist colliding with Piotr's jaw. Heracles grabbed Dmitri, yanking him roughly off of his older bother. Dmitri was still looking at Piotr, but Marie could see his mouth moving. "You apologize, Piotr! She is not whore! She is good girl, and I am loving her very much!"

He finally managed to wriggle out of Heracles's grasp, and he approached her now. He had just come to her defense. He really did care about her and the baby. It felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her heart. Dmitri still loved her. He would support her. He put his arms around her. "I am to honoring you," he said, "I am to marry you, and to honoring you. Come, I am to ask Pierre for permission."

She let Dmitri bring her back to her mother's house. Her mother was outside with Pierre. She had re-buttoned her blouse, though she'd done it crookedly, and it looked as though she was about to say something to Pierre. Dmitri approached Pierre, and Marie found herself holding her breath. "Pierre," he said, "I am having a question to ask of you, because you are the brother of Marie."

"Oh…well…fine, ask it." Pierre looked thoroughly confused, and Marie would have found his confusion amusing in a different circumstance. She wrung her hands. Would Dmitri tell Pierre that he'd gotten her pregnant? Pierre would be more than furious if he knew. He'd probably kill Dmitri on the spot. Oh God, thought Marie, please don't let him tell Pierre.

"I am wanting to marry Marie," Dmitri said, shifting his shoulders, standing up straighter.

"What? Why are you asking me?"

"Marie does not have father," said Dmitri. "You are…" he paused, frowning as he groped for the correct words, "only man in her life for to give her away."

Pierre turned to their mother now. "Is it even my decision?" he asked.

Their mother shook her head. "Of course not," she said. "It's Marie's. Marie, do you want to marry Dmitri?" Marie nodded. Hopefully her mother would let it go at that and give her consent. Hopefully she wouldn't pry. Hopefully she wouldn't have to tell her mother that she was pregnant. Marie bit her lip and was surprised when she drew blood. She fumbled in her pockets for a handkerchief and pressed it against her mouth.

Dmitri shifted nervously. "I don't have much for dowry, but if you give me time, I can to repay you."

Her mother was sighing and rubbing her forehead. Maybe she should tell her mother about the baby. Maybe if her mother knew, she'd give her consent. She'd been holding the secret inside of her for over a month now. She couldn't keep hiding it. Her body would begin to change soon; her mother would find out. Marie grabbed her mother's hand, unaware that she'd dropped the handkerchief. I'm pregnant, she said, I'm having his baby.

Her mother's mouth fell open. She stared at her in disbelief and shock, and Marie felt as though she would throw up. She shouldn't have told her. She shouldn't have said anything. She should've just waited. Oh God, what if her mother disowned her? No, no, her mother wouldn't do that. She was just shocked, that was all. It was a natural reaction. Marie glanced over at Pierre. He was glaring darkly at Dmitri, approaching him menacingly, his hands clenched into fists. "You got my sister pregnant?" shouted Pierre, "you stupid, filthy, pervert – "

"No, please," said Dmitri, backing away, holding up his hands, "I am to honoring Marie, I am to loving her most very much, I am wanting to marry her – "

"God damn Russian pervert! You took advantage of her! What, you couldn't keep it in your pants, so you had to ruin her like this? You God damn, stupid – "

Marie grabbed Pierre, digging her fingernails into his shoulder and pulling him towards her. He turned to her, and she could see the hate that he felt for Dmitri. It wasn't fair. He had no right to say such things about the man she loved. Marie slapped him, striking him as hard as she could. She saw the red handprint appear on the side of his face and felt a painful burning sensation in her palm, but she didn't care. He had no right to treat Dmitri like this.

Pierre turned to her, rubbing his face. There was a wounded look in his eyes, but she didn't care. He had no right to insult Dmitri, to call him a pervert. Stop it, she said, I love him. He didn't take advantage of me. I consented. I love him, and you have no right to treat him this way. He loves me. He wants to marry me.

"Pierre, if Marie and Dmitri wish to get married, then…then they can." Marie stared at her mother now. She felt relief wash over her. Her mother would let Dmitri marry her. They would raise their baby together, in a proper home. Marie sighed. "We will talk about the wedding in the morning," her mother said.

Dmitri nodded. "Thank you," he said, "I will come back tomorrow." He nodded to Marie, and she could see the love in his eyes. He did love her, and he would honor her by marrying her. Marie watched him leave, and she felt her mother's hand on her shoulder. She turned to her. Her mother hugged her. It was a swift, sudden movement, but Marie closed her eyes and savored it.


	10. Marie and Dmitri, Part III

STILL 1505…

"She cannot come with us," said Piotr. "Unless you have a caravan I don't know about. There's no room here for her."

"We aren't going with you," said Dmitri. He refused to look at Piotr. He could feel Piotr looking at him, and he did his best to ignore his stare. "We're staying in Lyon."

"Where will you live?"

Dmitri did not reply. He had not thought at all about how he and Marie would survive. He had no money; he'd been forced to give his earnings to Piotr, and he doubted that Marie had much. He reached for his sweater and stuffed it into his knapsack. He hated Piotr far too much to spend another night in the caravan. After what he'd said about Marie, Dmitri never wanted to see him again. The fact that Piotr was just standing there, staring at him and refusing to apologize, only made him angrier.

"Where will you stay tonight?" asked Piotr.

Dmitri clenched his teeth. "It doesn't matter, Piotr," he said, finally turning to his brother. "I'm not staying here."

"How do you know it's even your baby?" asked Piotr. "You know how those French girls are. They're loose. They've been with everyone."

"Not Marie."

Piotr shrugged. "Fine. Stay behind with her."

Dmitri opened the drawer beneath his narrow bunk. The bed had always been stiff, uncomfortable, and too small; it suddenly occurred to him that he'd never sleep in it again. He reached for the small wooden box where he kept his mother's ring and opened it. It was empty, and he glared at Piotr, shaking with anger. "Where is it, Piotr? Where is Mother's ring?"

"I won't let you give it to some slut," said Piotr.

"Don't talk about Marie like that!" Dmitri shouted, and Ivan began to cry. Ivan was Anja's baby; Marie's mother had helped her deliver him. Dmitri could see Anja moving behind Piotr. She lifted Ivan, rocking him in her arms and shushing him. "The ring is mine," continued Dmitri, "Father gave it to me before he died."

"He shouldn't have," said Piotr. "It's your fault Mother's dead. If not for you, she'd be alive and wearing that ring. Father shouldn't have given it to you."

Piotr was bigger than he was, stronger too, but Dmitri didn't care. He stepped forward, tightening his grip on the little wooden box. He had never really gotten along with Piotr, but now he found himself hating him. The hate felt thick and heavy, like wet wool blankets, and it engulfed him. Every time they argued, Piotr brought their mother's death into it, reminding Dmitri that she'd died while giving birth to him. The midwife had been forced to choose between the two lives, and in the end, she had sliced open Dmitri's mother and pulled him out, letting his mother die. Piotr brought up her death whenever he could, and it always stung Dmitri like salt in a wound. "It's mine," said Dmitri, "give it back."

"Dmitri, here." Anja was holding out her hand. Dmitri could see the ring glinting on her finger as she bounced Ivan in her arms. "Take it."

Piotr slapped her hand away before Dmitri could reach her. She shrank back, cowering. Dmitri had never seen his brother strike Anja. He had heard them argue plenty of times; nothing Anja did ever seemed good enough for Piotr. It frightened Dmitri to see Piotr slap at her like that, but he straightened his shoulders. "This isn't your business, Anja," said Piotr, his voice harsh. Ivan began to wail again. "Shut the baby up." Anja did not reply. She merely shrank further into the corner, shushing Ivan as she continued rocking him in her arms. "Get out, Dmitri."

"That ring is mine," said Dmitri, "and I can do what I please with it. Now give it back to me."

"Get out."

Dmitri was at first unaware that he was even moving. He was still holding the wooden box when he struck Piotr, and the box's corner slammed into Piotr's cheek. Piotr cursed, swinging his fist at Dmitri, nearly catching him in the face. Dmitri ducked. Blood was running down Piotr's face, and he pressed his hand to his cheek, glaring at Dmitri.

"Piece of filth!" he shouted, "I cared for you after Father died and this is how you repay me?"

"That ring is mine! You have no right to take it from me – "

"And you have no right to give it to some whore who was stupid enough to open her legs for you!"

It felt as though his soul was on fire. The rage burned within him; it was almost painful. Dmitri swung his fist, and the wooden box hit Piotr square in the nose. He felt Piotr's nose break, but did not hear the bones crunch above Anja's scream. She and Ivan were both shrieking now, tears streaming down their faces. "Take it, Dmitri," she sobbed, holding the ring out to him. Piotr was slumped against the wall, his hands pressed over his face, blood streaming from between his fingers. He was glaring at Anja, shaking his head and silently telling her to put the ring back on her finger and shut up. "Just take it."

He took the ring wordlessly, releasing the wooden box and letting it fall from his hand. It clattered against the floor, and he kicked it aside as he picked up his knapsack and left. Vladimir and Boris were staring at him warily, their wives and sisters behind them. The night air was cool, and it would only grow colder. Dmitri put his coat on. Everyone had heard the argument between him and Piotr. It would have been impossible not to hear such a thing. He could not ask anyone for shelter; they would only deny him. They had heard him shouting with Piotr, and Anja would undoubtedly tell them all what had happened later.

He had no choice. He would have to sleep somewhere outside. He turned and got down on his hands and knees, then crawled beneath Piotr's caravan. At least the dog would not turn him away. It was a large gray mutt, and it bore a striking resemblance to a wolf. It had begun following the caravan once they'd reached France, and had stuck around because Vladimir would throw it scraps. It lifted its head and stared at Dmitri, but it did not pull away when he snuggled against it. The night would only grow colder, and the dog would keep him warm. Dmitri slipped the ring into his pocket and closed his eyes.

~xXx~

The ring looked beautiful on Marie's finger. He loved seeing it there. He held her hand, looking down at the ring, and wished that he could give her more. She was so kind and sweet and beautiful. She deserved so much more than he could ever give her, and this thought saddened him. He wanted to take care of her, to provide for her and protect her. He wanted to be able to come home each day with honest money in his coin pouch. He wanted her to be proud of him.

"There is something I must tell you," he said. "I am…not knowing how to say, exactly, but I am trying." She stared at him, nodding, silently telling him to continue. "I am pretending to being…ehm…wounded? I think is wounded. I am pretending to having only one leg…" Marie shook her head, tilting it to the side in confusion. Dmitri sighed. "Wait for me."

He went back into the house. It felt strange to be living with Marie and her mother. It felt wrong. Marie's mother had agreed to move out once they were married, giving them the house as a sort of wedding gift. Dmitri was grateful, would always be grateful, but the gift made him feel impotent. A real man could give his wife a house, could buy or build it for her. A real man did not have to take from his future mother-in-law.

Dmitri sat down on the floor and bound up his leg. He dug the crutch out of his knapsack and pulled himself to his feet. He sighed, staring down at his left leg. Marie would be ashamed to find out that he was a beggar, and a dishonest one at that. He had to tell her. He had no choice. She was his bride-to-be, and she had every right to know. Besides, he couldn't keep it hidden from her. She wasn't stupid. She'd find out sooner or later. Dmitri took a deep breath and hobbled out of the house.

Marie's eyes widened with surprise when she saw him. He went to her, forcing himself to look her in the eye. "No one will let me work for him," he said, "because they think I am thief. So I beg for coins and pretend to being wounded."

Marie stepped towards him and grabbed his free hand. She placed it on her chest, over her heart. Dmitri stared at his hand. He could feel her heart beating steadily within her breast, and he didn't know what to say to her. This was her way of saying 'I love you.' The fact that she could continue to love him, even after finding out that he had to lie to make a living, was too much for him. He didn't deserve her. He swallowed, fighting the urge to cry. He stood before her, thoroughly exhausted and smelling like a dog and pretending to be crippled, and she still loved him.

"I am not deserving you," he said. She shook her head. He took her hand and placed it over his heart. "You are deserving more than me." She kept shaking her head, and she leaned in and kissed him. He embraced her, wrapping his free arm around her and pulling her in close. He loved her so much it nearly hurt. He closed his eyes. He would find a way to give her what she truly deserved.

~xXx~

Dmitri hobbled along the road to Lyon. He had told Marie, had confessed to her, about the begging, and it felt as though a weight had been lifted from his heart. He held his head up as high as he could. She didn't care that he begged in the streets. She loved him anyway. This, of course, didn't make the begging any less shameful or dishonest, but it made the burden easier to bear.

He stood in the street that led to the marketplace, holding his cup out. "Charity please," he said, "charity for a crippled orphan, please."

"I need to talk to you." He had seen Pierre out of the corner of his eye, and he'd hoped (naïvely and stupidly) that Pierre would go away if he didn't acknowledge him. Dmitri glanced at Pierre. For once, Pierre did not look angry with him. He was standing a few paces behind him, his arms folded calmly over his chest. Dmitri nodded. He could not really refuse an audience with Pierre. Pierre was, after all, Marie's older brother, his future brother-in-law. Pierre had been furious when he'd found out about Marie's pregnancy, but Dmitri could understand how he had felt. Pierre had spent most of his life taking care of his little sister, playing with her and teaching her how to survive on the streets. He loved her, naturally, and wanted to continue to protect her.

"Come on." Pierre turned towards a tavern, motioning for Dmitri to follow him. Dmitri limped after him. The tavern was small and dimly lit, despite the sunshine from outside. Pierre sat down at a grimy table in the corner, and Dmitri sat across from him, leaning his crutch against the wall. "I'm sorry for what I said to you last night," said Pierre.

"Please, is nothing."

"It was wrong of me," continued Pierre. He glanced towards the bartender and signaled to him.

"I am understanding, though," said Dmitri. The bartender set down two mugs of beer, glancing at Dmitri's crutch as he did so. "You are the older brother of Marie. You love her. You were thinking I hurt her."

Pierre picked up one of the mugs and drank. "I keep forgetting that she's a woman now," he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "You understand?" Dmitri nodded. "I keep thinking she's a little girl."

"I understand." Dmitri took a swallow of beer. It was watery and bitter, and he normally didn't drink until the evening. It felt somewhat strange to be drinking in the middle of the day.

"Anyway," said Pierre, "if you're going to marry her, we should at least be friends."

Dmitri nodded. "Yes," he said, "I would like that."

Pierre lifted his mug again. "To you and Marie."

~xXx~

Marie's hair was long and dark, and it hung around her face. It seemed strange to see her hair like this; he'd only ever seen it pulled back into a neat braid. Marie had made a little crown with pink and white flowers, and she wore it now. She looked more beautiful than ever. Dmitri had washed his best clothes, had scrubbed them and made all necessary repairs. He still felt shabby standing beside Marie, but he didn't care. He held her hands, and she smiled at him.

Her mother would be the one to marry them, and she placed her hands over theirs. Dmitri looked at her now. She looked nervous, and she squeezed their hands as if to keep her own from shaking. "Dmitri," she said, "do you swear to love and honor my daughter, Marie?"

"Yes, I do."

"And Marie, do you swear to love and honor your husband Dmitri?"

Marie nodded eagerly. Pierre handed her a small clay cup filled with wine, and she closed her eyes as she drank. She handed the cup to Dmitri, and he took it from her, remembering sitting with Pierre in the tavern. _To you and Marie_. To us, thought Dmitri, to our baby. He drank, and he let the empty cup fall from his hand. It hit the ground hard, cracking and breaking, sending bits of clay flying across the glass. Marie stared at it, flinching as it broke, but she was smiling when she looked up at him.

He kissed her, closing his eyes and savoring the softness of her lips against his. He held her, and it felt like time had stopped. It felt like the rest of the world had just vanished, as if nothing remained except for him and Marie and the smell of flowers. The flowers in her hair were sweet-smelling, and their perfume reminded him of the little field of flowers that was theirs and theirs alone. He wondered if she had gathered the flowers from that field.

It occurred to him that they would make love, and they would not be doing it in the field. They would be in a bed. They'd have peace and privacy. There would be no rushing for fear of being caught, there would be no mad scramble to get back into their clothing when they were finished. They would have time. They would be able to lie in each other's arms all night. He loved the idea.

The applause from Marie's friends and family pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned to them, smiling. Piotr and Anja had left earlier in the week. They had packed up the caravans, and everyone Dmitri had grown up alongside had simply left him behind. He'd watched the caravans leaving, feeling relieved. No one had made an effort to say goodbye to him, and he didn't care.

He watched now as Marie greeted her friends, smiling at them as they congratulated her and wished her luck. He wondered how many of them knew that she was pregnant. He turned to Marie's mother. She was watching Marie, her hands clasped in front of her, smiling. "Thank you," he said, "for everything you have done. I will find way to repaying you, I promise."

She shook her head. "Just take care of my Marie," she said. She was sniffling, and she wiped at her eyes. "Be a good husband and a good father. That's all I ask."

"I will. I swear it."

Marie was pulling on his hand now, and he went with her.


End file.
